0^- 


(5?.^* 


.(2^ 


^ 


G 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CAUFORNIA 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/fugitiveOOtagoiala 


THE  FUGITIVE 


^^^m. 


MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON    •    BOMBAY    •    CALCUTTA    •    MADRAS 
MKL BOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON    •    CHICAGO 
DALLAS    •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


</77/^<^ 


THE  FUGITIVE 


BY 

RABINDRANATH  TAGORE 


MACMILLAN   AND   CO.,  LIMITED 

ST.  MARTIN'S  STREET,  LONDON 

1921 


COPYRIGHT 


TO 

W,  W.  PEARSON 


CONTENTS 


PAOB 


The  Fugitive — I i 

Kacha  and  Devayani  .         .         .         •       23 

Translations       ......       43 

The  Fugitive — II.      .....       49 

Am  A  AND  Vina  YAK  A    ,         .         ,         .         -75 
The  Mother's  Prayer        ....       93 

Translations       .         .         .         .         .         .111 

The  Fugitive — III.     .         .         .         .         .119 

SOMAKA    AND    RiTVIK 151 

Karna  and  Kunti      .         .         .         .         .     171 
Translations 195 


A 


B 


Dakkly  you  sweep  on,  Eternal  Fugi- 
tive, round  whose  bodiless  rush  stag- 
nant space  frets  into  eddying  bubbles 
of  light. 

Is  your  heart  lost  to  the  Lover  calling 
you  across  his  immeasurable  loneliness  ? 

Is  the  aching  urgency  of  your  haste 
the  sole  reason  why  your  tangled  tresses 
break  into  stormy  riot  and  pearls  of 
fire  roll  along  your  path  as  from  a 
broken  necklace  ? 

Your  fleeting  steps  kiss  the  dust  of 
this  world  into  sweetness,  sweeping 
aside  all  waste  ;  the  storm  centred  with 

8 


4  THE  FUGITIVE 

your  dancing  limbs  shakes  the  sacred 
shower  of  death  over  life  and  freshens 
her  growth. 

Should  you  in  sudden  weariness  stop 
for  a  moment,  the  world  would  rumble 
into  a  heap,  an  encumbrance,  barring  its 
own  progress,  and  even  the  least  speck 
of  dust  would  pierce  the  sky  throughout 
its  infinity  with  an  unbearable  pressure. 

My  thoughts  are  quickened  by  this 
rhythm  of  unseen  feet  round  which  the 
anklets  of  light  are  shaken. 

They  echo  in  the  pulse  of  my  heart, 
and  through  my  blood  surges  the  psalm 
of  the  ancient  sea. 

I  hear  the  thundering  flood  tumbling 
my  life  from  world  to  world  and  form 
to  form,  scattering  my  being  in  an  end- 
less spray  of  gifts,  in  sorrowings  and 
songs. 

The  tide  runs  high,  the  wind  blows, 


THE  FUGITIVE  5 

the  boat  dances  like  thine  own  desire, 
my  heart  I 

Leave  the  hoard  on  the  shore  and 
sail  over  the  unfathomed  dark  towards 
limitless  light. 

2 

We  came  hither  together,  friend, 
and  now  at  the  cross-roads  I  stop  to 
bid  you  farewell. 

Your  path  is  wide  and  straight  before 
you,  but  my  call  comes  up  by  ways 
from  the  unknown. 

I  shall  follow  wind  and  cloud ;  I 
shall  follow  the  stars  to  where  day 
breaks  behind  the  hills ;  I  shall  follow 
lovers  who,  as  they  walk,  twine  their 
days  into  a  wreath  on  a  single  thread 
of  song,  "  I  love." 

3 

It  was  growing  dark  when  T  asked 
her,  "What  strange  land  have  I  come 
to?" 


6  THE  FUGITIVE 

She  only  lowered  her  eyes,  and  the 
water  gurgled  in  the  throat  of  her  jar, 
as  she  walked  away. 

The  trees  hang  vaguely  over  the 
bank,  and  the  land  appears  as  though  it 
already  belonged  to  the  past 

The  water  is  dumb,  the  bamboos  are 
darkly  still,  a  wristlet  tinkles  against 
the  water -jar  from  down  the  lane. 

Row  no  more,  but  fasten  the  boat  to 
this  tree, — for  I  love  the  look  of  this 
land. 

The  evening  star  goes  down  behind 
the  temple  dome,  and  the  pallor  of  the 
marble  landing  haunts  the  dark  water. 

Belated  wayfarers  sigh  ;  for  light  from 
hidden  windows  is  splintered  into  the 
darkness  by  intervening  wayside  trees 
and  bushes.  Still  that  wristlet  tinkles 
against  the  water-jar,  and  retreating 
steps  rustle  from  down  the  lane  littered 
with  leaves. 


THE  FUGITIVE  7 

The  night  deepens,  the  palace  towers 
loom  spectre-like,  and  the  town  hums 
wearily. 

Row  no  more,  but  fasten  the  boat  to 
a  tree. 

Let  me  seek  rest  in  this  strange  land, 
dimly  lying  under  the  stars,  where  dark- 
ness tingles  with  the  tinkle  of  a  wristlet 
knocking  against  a  water-jar. 


O  that  I  were  stored  with  a  secret, 
like  unshed  rain  in  summer  clouds — a 
secret,  folded  up  in  silence,  that  I  could 
wander  away  with. 

0  that  I  had  some  one  to  whisper  to, 
where  slow  waters  lap  under  trees  that 
doze  in  the  sun. 

The  hush  this  evening  seems  to  expect 
a  footfall,  and  you  ask  me  for  the  cause 
of  my  tears. 

1  cannot  give  a  reason  why  I  weep, 
for  that  is  a  secret  still  withheld  from  me. 


g  THE  FUGITIVE 

5 

For  once  be  careless,  timid  traveller, 
and  utterly  lose  your  way ;  wide-awake 
though  you  are,  be  like  broad  daylight 
enticed  by  and  netted  in  mist. 

Do  not  shun  the  garden  of  Lost 
Hearts  waiting  at  the  end  of  the  wrong 
road,  where  the  grass  is  strewn  with 
wrecked  red  flowers,  and  disconsolate 
water  heaves  in  the  troubled  sea. 

Long  have  you  watched  over  the 
store  gathered  by  weary  years.  Let  it 
be  stripped,  with  nothing  remaining  but 
the  desolate  triumph  of  losing  all. 

6 

Two  little  bare  feet  flitovertheground, 
and  seem  to  embody  that  metaphor, 
"  Flowers  are  the  footprints  of  summer." 

They  lightly  impress  on  the  dust  the 
chronicle  of  their  adventure,  to  be  erased 
by  a  passing  breeze. 


THE  FUGITIVE  9 

Come,  stray  into  my  heart,  you  tender 
little  feet,  and  leave  the  everlasting 
print  of  songs  on  my  dreamland  path. 

7 

T  am  like  the  night  to  you,  little 
flower. 

I  can  only  give  you  peace  and  a 
wakeful  silence  hidden  in  the  dark. 

When  in  the  morning  you  open  your 
eyes,  I  shall  leave  you  to  a  world 
a-hum  with  bees,  and  songful  with 
birds. 

My  last  gift  to  you  will  be  a  tear 
dropped  into  the  depth  of  your  youth  ; 
it  wiU  make  your  smile  all  the  sweeter, 
and  bemist  your  outlook  on  the  pitiless 
mirth  of  day. 

8 

Do  not  stand  before  my  window 
with  those  hungry  eyes  and  beg  for 
my  secret.     It  is  but  a  tiny  stone  of 


10     '       THE  FUGITIVE 

glistening  pain  streaked  with  blood-red 
by  passion. 

What  gifts  have  you  brought  in 
both  hands  to  fling  before  me  in  the 
dust? 

I  fear,  if  I  accept,  to  create  a  debt 
that  can  never  be  paid  even  by  the  loss 
of  all  I  have. 

Do  not  stand  before  my  window  with 
your  youth  and  flowers  to  shame  my 
destitute  life. 

9 

If  I  were  living  in  the  royal  town  of 
Ujjain,  when  Kalidas  was  the  king's 
poet,  I  should  know  some  Malwa  girl 
and  fill  my  thoughts  with  the  music  of 
her  name.  She  would  glance  at  me 
through  the  slanting  shadow  of  her 
eyelids,  and  allow  her  veil  to  catch  in 
the  jasmine  as  an  excuse  for  lingering 
near  me. 

This  very  thing  happened  in  some 


THE  FUGITIVE  11 

past  whose  track  is  lost  under  time's 
dead  leaves. 

The  scholars  fight  to-day  about  dates 
that  play  hide-and-seek. 

I  do  not  break  my  heart  dreaming 
over  flown  and  vanished  ages :  but  alas 
and  alas  again,  that  those  Malwa  girls 
have  followed  them  ! 

To  what  heaven,  I  wonder,  have  they 
carried  in  their  flower- baskets  those 
days  that  tingled  to  the  lyrics  of  the 
king's  poet  ? 

This  morning,  separation  from  those 
whom  I  was  born  too  late  to  meet 
weighs  on  and  saddens  my  heart. 

Yet  April  carries  the  same  flowers 
with  which  they  decked  their  hair, 
and  the  same  south  breeze  fluttered 
their  veils  as  whispers  over  modern 
roses. 

And,  to  tell  the  truth,  joys  are  not 
lacking  to  this  spring,  though  Kalidas 
sing  no  more;  and  I  know,  if  he  can 


12  THE  FUGITIVE 

watch  me  from  the  Poets'  Paradise,  he 
has  reasons  to  be  envious. 


10 

Be  not  concerned  about  her  heart, 
my  heart :  leave  it  in  the  dark. 

What  if  her  beauty  be  of  the  figure 
and  her  smile  merely  of  the  face  ?  Let 
me  take  without  question  the  simple 
meaning  of  her  glances  and  be  happy. 

I  care  not  if  it  be  a  web  of  delusion 
that  her  arms  wind  about  me,  for  the 
web  itself  is  rich  and  rare,  and  the 
deceit  can  be  smiled  at  and  forgotten. 

Be  not  concerned  about  her  heart, 
my  heart :  be  content  if  the  music  is 
true,  though  the  words  are  not  to  be 
believed ;  enjoy  the  grace  that  dances 
like  a  lily  on  the  rippling,  deceiving 
surface,  whatever  may  lie  beneath. 


THE  FUGITIVE  13 

11 

Neither  mother  nor  daughter  are  you, 
nor  bride,  Urvashi.^  Woman  you  are, 
to  ravish  the  soul  of  Paradise. 

When  weary -footed  evening  comes 
down  to  the  folds  whither  the  cattle 
have  returned,  you  never  trim  the  house 
lamps  nor  walk  to  the  bridal  bed  with 
a  tremulous  heart  and  a  wavering  smile 
on  your  lips,  glad  that  the  dark  hours 
are  so  secret. 

Like  the  dawn  you  are  without  veil, 
Urvashi,  and  without  shame. 

Who  can  imagine  that  aching  over- 
flow of  splendour  which  created  you  1 

You  rose  from  the  churned  ocean  on 
the  first  day  of  the  first  spring,  with  the 
cup  of  life  in  your  right  hand  and  poison 
in  your  left  The  monster  sea,  lulled 
like  an  enchanted  snake,  laid  down  its 
thousand  hoods  at  your  feet. 

^  The  dancing  girl  of  Paradise  who  rose  from  the  sea. 


14  THE  FUGITIVE 

Your  unblemished  radiance  rose  from 
the  foam,  white  and  naked  as  a  jasmine. 

Were  you  ever  small,  timid  or  in  bud, 
Urvashi,  O  Youth  everlasting  ? 

Did  you  sleep,  cradled  in  the  deep 
blue  night  where  the  strange  light  of 
gems  plays  over  coral,  shells  and  moving 
creatures  of  dreamlike  form,  till  day 
revealed  your  awful  fulness  of  bloom  ? 

Adored  are  you  of  all  men  in  all  ages, 
Urvashi,  O  endless  wonder  1 

The  world  throbs  with  youthful  pain 
at  the  glance  of  your  eyes,  the  ascetic 
lays  the  fruit  of  his  austerities  at  your 
feet,  the  songs  of  poets  hum  and  swarm 
round  the  perfume  of  your  presence. 
Your  feet,  as  in  careless  joy  they  flit  on, 
wound  even  the  heart  of  the  hollow 
wind  with  the  tinkle  of  golden  bells. 

When  you  dance  before  the  gods, 
flinging   orbits  of  novel   rhythm   into 


THE  FUGITIVE  15 

space,  Urvashi,  the  earth  shivers,  leaf 
and  grass,  and  autumn  fields  heave  and 
sway ;  the  sea  surges  into  a  frenzy  of 
rhyming  waves ;  the  stars  drop  into 
the  sky — beads  from  the  chain  that  leaps 
till  it  breaks  on  your  breast ;  and  the 
blood  dances  in  men's  hearts  with  sudden 
turmoil. 

You  are  the  first  break  on  the  crest 
of  heaven's  slumber,  Urvashi,  you  thrill 
the  air  with  unrest.  The  world  bathes 
your  limbs  in  her  tears  ;  with  colour  of 
her  heart's  blood  are  your  feet  red ; 
lightly  you  poise  on  the  wave-tossed 
lotus  of  desire,  Urvashi ;  you  play  for- 
ever in  that  limitless  mind  wherein 
labours  God's  tumultuous  dream. 

12 

You,  like  a  rivulet  swift  and  sinuous, 
laugh  and  dance,  and  your  steps  sing  as 
you  trip  along. 


16  THE  FUGITIVE 

I,  like  a  bank  rugged  and  steep,  stand 
speechless  and  stock-still  and  darkly  gaze 
at  you. 

I,  like  a  big,  foolish  storm,  of  a  sudden 
come  rushing  on  and  try  to  rend  my 
being  and  scatter  it  parcelled  in  a  whirl 
of  passion. 

You,  like  the  lightning's  flash  slender 
and  keen,  pierce  the  heart  of  the  turbu- 
lent darkness,  to  disappear  in  a  vivid 
streak  of  laughter. 


13 

You  desired  my  love  and  yet  you  did 
not  love  me. 

Therefore  my  life  clings  to  you  lite 
a  chain  of  which  clank  and  grip  grow 
harsher  the  more  you  struggle  to  be 
free. 

My  despair  has  become  your  deadly 
companion,  clutching  at  the  faintest  of 


THE  FUGITIVE  17 

your  favours,  trying  to  drag  you  away 
into  the  cavern  of  tears. 

You  have  shattered  my  freedom,  and 
with  its  wreck  built  your  own  prison. 

14 

I  am  glad  you  will  not  wait  for  me 
with  that  lingering  pity  in  your  look. 

It  is  only  the  spell  of  the  night  and 
my  farewell  words,  startled  at  their  own 
tune  of  despair,  which  bring  these  tears 
to  my  eyes.  But  day  will  dawn,  my 
eyes  will  dry  and  my  heart ;  and  there 
will  be  no  time  for  weeping. 

Who  says  it  is  hard  to  forget  ? 

The  mercy  of  death  works  at  life's 
core,  bringing  it  respite  from  its  own 
foolish  persistence. 

The  stormy  sea  is  lulled  at  last  in 
its  rocking  cradle ;  the  forest  fire  falls 
to  sleep  on  its  bed  of  ashes. 

You  and  I  shall  part,  and  the  cleavage 

c 


18  THE  FUGITIVE 

will  be  hidden  under  living  grass  and 
flowers  that  laugh  in  the  sun. 

15 

Of  all  days  you  have  chosen  this  one 
to  visit  my  garden. 

But  the  storm  passed  over  my  roses 
last  night  and  the  grass  is  strewn  with 
torn  leaves. 

I  do  not  know  what  has  brought  you, 
now  that  the  hedges  are  laid  low  and 
rills  run  in  the  walks ;  the  prodigal 
wealth  of  spring  is  scattered  and  the 
scent  and  song  of  yesterday  are  wrecked. 

Yet  stay  a  while  ;  let  me  find  some 
remnant  flowers,  though  I  doubt  if 
your  skirt  can  be  filled. 

The  time  will  be  short,  for  the  clouds 
thicken  and  here  comes  the  rain  again  ! 

16 

I  forgot  myself  for  a  moment,  and  I 
came. 


THE  FUGITIVE  19 

But  raise  your  eyes,  and  let  me  know 
if  there  still  linger  some  shadow  of  other 
days,  like  a  pale  cloud  on  the  horizon 
that  has  been  robbed  of  its  rain. 

For  a  moment  bear  with  me  if  I 
forget  myself. 

The  roses  are  still  in  bud ;  they  do 
not  yet  know  how  we  neglect  to  gather 
flowers  this  summer. 

The  morning  star  has  the  same 
palpitating  hush ;  the  early  light  is 
enmeshed  in  the  branches  that  over- 
brow  your  window,  as  in  those  other 
days. 

That  times  are  changed  I  forget  for 
a  little,  and  have  come. 

I  forget  if  you  ever  shamed  me  by 
looking  away  when  I  bared  my  heart. 

I  only  remember  the  words  that 
stranded  on  the  tremor  of  your  lips  ; 
I  remember  in  your  dark  eyes  sweeping 


20  THE  FUGITIVE 

shadows  of  passion,  like  the  wings  of  a 
home-seeking  bird  in  the  dusk. 

I  forget  that  you  do  not  remember, 
and  I  come. 

17 

The  rain  fell  fast.  The  river  rushed 
and  hissed.  It  licked  up  and  swallowed 
the  island,  while  I  waited  alone  on  the 
lessening  bank  with  my  sheaves  of  corn 
in  a  heap. 

From  the  shadows  of  the  opposite 
shore  the  boat  crosses  with  a  woman  at 
the  helm. 

I  cry  to  her,  "Come  to  my  island 
coiled  round  with  hungry  water,  and 
take  away  my  year's  harvest." 

She  comes,  and  takes  all  that  I  have 
to  the  last  grain  ;  I  ask  her  to  take  me. 

But  she  says,  "  No " — the  boat  is 
laden  with  my  gift  and  no  room  is  left 
for  me. 


THE  FUGITIVE  21 

18 

The  evening  beckons,  and  I  would 
fain  follow  the  travellers  who  sailed  in 
the  last  ferry  of  the  ebb-tide  to  cross 
the  dark. 

Some  were  for  home,  some  for  the 
farther  shore,  yet  all  have  ventured  to 
sail. 

But  I  sit  alone  at  the  landing,  having 
left  my  home  and  missed  the  boat : 
summer  is  gone  and  my  winter  harvest 
is  lost. 

I  wait  for  that  love  which  gathers 
failures  to  sow  them  in  tears  on  the 
dark,  that  they  may  bear  fruit  when 
day  rises  anew. 

19 

On  this  side  of  the  water  there  is  no 
landing ;  the  girls  do  not  come  here  to 
fetch  water  ;  the  land  along  its  edge  is 
shaggy  with  stunted  shrubs;   a  noisy 


22  THE  FUGITIVE 

flock  of  saliks  dig  their  nests  in  the 
steep  bank  under  whose  frown  the 
fisher-boats  find  no  shelter. 

You  sit  there  on  the  unfrequented 
grass,  and  the  morning  wears  on.  Tell 
me  what  you  do  on  this  bank  so  dry 
that  it  is  agape  with  cracks  ? 

She  looks  in  my  face  and  says, 
"  Nothing,  nothing  whatsoever." 

On  this  side  of  the  river  the  bank  is 
deserted,  and  no  cattle  come  to  water. 
Only  some  stray  goats  from  the  village 
browse  the  scanty  grass  all  day,  and  the 
solitary  water-hawk  watches  from  an 
uprooted  peepal  aslant  over  the  mud. 

You  sit  there  alone  in  the  miserly 
shade  of  a  shimool^  and  the  morning 
wears  on. 

Tell  me,  for  whom  do  you  wait  ? 

She  looks  in  my  face  and  says,  "  No 
one,  no  one  at  all  1 " 


20 
KACHA  AND   DEVAYANI 


28 


KACHA  AND  DEVAYANI 

Young  Kacha  came  from  Paradise  to 
learn  the  secret  of  immortality  from  a 
Sage  who  taught  the  Titans,  and  whose 
daughter  Devayanifell  in  love  with  him, 

Kacha 

The  time  has  come  for  me  to  take 
leave,  Devayani ;  I  have  long  sat  at  your 
father's  feet,  but  to-day  he  completed 
his  teaching.  Graciously  allow  me  to 
go  back  to  the  land  of  the  Gods  whence 
I  came. 

Devayani 

You  have,  as  you  desired,  won  that 
rare  knowledge  coveted  by  the  Gods  : — 

25 


26  THE  FUGITIVE 

but  think,  do  you  aspire  after  nothing 
further  ? 

Kacha 
Nothing. 

Devayani 

Nothing  at  all  I  Dive  into  the  bottom 
of  your  heart ;  does  no  timid  wish  lurk 
there,  fearful  lest  it  be  blighted  ? 

Kacha 

For  me  the  sun  of  fulfilment  has  risen, 
and  the  stars  have  faded  in  its  light. 
I  have  mastered  the  knowledge  which 
gives  life. 

Devayani 

Then  you  must  be  the  one  happy 
being  in  creation.  Alas  I  now  for  the 
first  time  I  feel  what  torture  these  days 
spent  in  an  alien  land  have  been  to  you, 
though  we  offered  you  our  best. 


THE  FUGITIVE  27 

Kacha 

Not  so  much  bitterness  !  Smile,  and 
give  me  leave  to  go. 

Devayani 

Smile  I  But,  my  friend,  this  is  not 
your  native  Paradise.  Smiles  are  not 
so  cheap  in  this  world,  where  thirst, 
like  a  worm  in  the  flower,  gnaws  at  the 
heart's  core  ;  where  baffled  desire  hovers 
round  the  desired,  and  memory  never 
ceases  to  sigh  foolishly  after  vanished 

joy. 

Kacha 

Devayani,  tell  me  how  I  have 
offended  ? 

Devayani 

Is  it  so  easy  for  you  to  leave  this 
forest,  which  through  long  years  has 
lavished  on  you  shade  and  song  ?  Do 
you  not  feel  how  the  wind  wails  through 


28  THE  FUGITIVE 

these  glimmering  shadows,  and  dry 
leaves  whirl  in  the  air,  like  ghosts  of 
lost  hope ; — while  you  alone,  who  part 
from  us,  have  a  smile  on  your  lips  ? 

Kacha 

This  forest  has  been  a  second  mother 
to  me,  for  here  I  have  been  born  again. 
My  love  for  it  shall  never  dwindle. 

Devayani 

When  you  had  driven  the  cattle  to 
graze  on  the  lawn,  yonder  banyan  tree 
spread  a  hospitable  shade  for  your  tired 
limbs  against  the  mid-day  heat. 

Kacha 

I  bow  to  thee,  Lord  of  the  Forest ! 
Remember  me,  when  under  thy  shade 
other  students  chant  their  lessons  to  an 
accompaniment  of  bees  humming  and 
leaves  rustling. 


THE  FUGITIVE  29 

Devayani 

And  do  not  forget  our  Venumati, 
whose  swift  water  is  one  stream  of 
singing  love. 

Kacha 

I  shall  ever  remember  her,  the  dear 
companion  of  my  exile,  who,  like  a  busy 
village  girl,  smiles  on  her  errand  of 
ceaseless  service  and  croons  a  simple 
song. 

Devayani 

But,  friend,  let  me  also  remind  you 
that  you  had  another  companion  whose 
thoughts  were  vainly  busy  to  make  you 
forget  an  exile's  cares. 

Kacha 

The  memory  of  her  has  become  a 
part  of  my  life. 


80  THE  FUGITIVE 

Devayani 

I  recall  the  day  when,  little  more 
than  a  boy,  you  first  arrived.  You 
stood  there,  near  the  hedge  of  the 
garden,  a  smile  in  your  eyes. 

Kacha 

And  I  saw  you  gathering  flowers — 
clad  in  white,  like  the  dawn  bathed  in 
radiance.  And  I  said,  "  Make  me  proud 
by  allowing  me  to  help  you  I " 

Devayani 

I  asked  in  surprise  who  you  were, 
and  you  meekly  answered  that  you 
were  the  son  of  Vrihaspati,  a  divine 
sage  at  the  court  of  the  God  Indra, 
and  desired  to  learn  from  my  father 
that  secret  spell  which  can  revive  the 
dead. 


THE  FUGITIVE  81 

Kacha 

I  feared  lest  the  Master,  the  teacher 
of  the  Titans,  those  rivals  of  the  Gods, 
should  refuse  to  accept  me  for  a  disciple. 

Devayani 

But  he  could  not  refuse  me  when  I 
pleaded  your  cause,  so  greatly  he  loves 
his  daughter. 

Kacha 

Thrice  had  the  jealous  Titans  slain 
me,  and  thrice  you  prevailed  on  your 
father  to  bring  me  back  to  life ;  there- 
fore my  gratitude  can  never  die. 

Devayani 

Gratitude  !  Forget  all — I  shall  not 
grieve.  Do  you  only  remember  bene- 
fits ?  Let  them  perish  I  If  after  the 
day's  lessons,  in  the  evening  solitude, 
some  strange  tremor  of  joy  shook  your 


82  THE  FUGITIVE 

heart,  remember  that — but  not  grati- 
tude. If,  as  some  one  passed,  a  snatch 
of  song  got  tangled  among  your  texts 
or  the  swing  of  a  robe  fluttered  your 
studies  with  delight,  remember  that 
when  at  leisure  in  your  Paradise.  What, 
benefits  only  I — and  neither  beauty  nor 
love  nor  .  .  .  ? 

Kacha 

Some  things  are  beyond  the  power  of 
words. 

Devayani 

Yes,  yes,  I  know.  My  love  has 
sounded  your  heart's  deepest,  and  makes 
me  bold  to  speak  in  defiance  of  your 
reserve.  Never  leave  me  I  remain  here  I 
fame  gives  no  happiness.  Friend,  you 
cannot  now  escape,  for  your  secret  is 
mine  I 

Kacha 
No,  no,  Devayani. 


THE  FUGITIVE  33 

Devayani 

How  "No"?  Do  not  lie  to  me  I 
Love's  insight  is  divine.  Day  after 
day,  in  raising  your  head,  in  a  glance, 
in  the  motion  of  your  hands,  your  love 
spoke  as  the  sea  speaks  through  its 
waves.  On  a  sudden  my  voice  would 
send  your  heart  quivering  through  your 
limbs — have  I  never  witnessed  it  ?  I 
know  you,  and  therefore  you  are  my 
captive  for  ever.  The  very  king  of  your 
Gods  shall  not  sever  this  bond. 

Kacha 

Was  it  for  this,  Devayani,  that  I 
toiled,  away  from  home  and  kindred, 
all  these  years  ? 

Devayani 

Why  not?  Is  only  knowledge 
precious  ?  Is  love  cheap  ?  Lay  hold 
on  this  moment.     Have  the  courage  to 

D 


84  THE  FUGITIVE 

own  that  a  woman's  heart  is  worth  all  as 
much  penance  as  men  undergo  for  the 
sake  of  power,  knowledge,  or  reputation. 

Kacha 

I  gave  my  solemn  promise  to  the 
Gods  that  I  would  bring  them  this  lore 
of  deathless  life. 

Devayani 

But  is  it  true  you  had  eyes  for 
nothing  save  your  books?  That  you 
never  broke  off  your  studies  to  pay  me 
homage  with  flowers,  never  lay  in  wait 
for  a  chance,  of  an  evening,  to  help  me 
water  my  flower-beds  ?  What  made 
you  sit  by  me  on  the  grass  and  sing 
songs  you  brought  hither  from  the 
assembly  of  the  stars,  while  darkness 
stooped  over  the  river  bank  as  love 
droops  over  its  own  sad  silence  ?  Were 
these  parts  of  a  cruel  conspiracy  plotted 
in   your   Paradise  ?  ^  Was  all  for  the 


THE  FUGITIVE  85 

sake  of  access  to  my  father's  heart  ? — 
and  after  success,  were  you,  departing, 
to  throw  some  cheap  gratitude,  like 
small  coins,  to  the  deluded  doorkeeper  ? 

Kacha 

What  profit  were  there,  proud  woman, 
in  knowing  the  truth  ?  If  I  did  wrong 
to  serve  you  with  a  passionate  devotion 
cherished  in  secret,  I  have  had  ample 
punishment.  This  is  no  time  to  question 
whether  my  love  be  true  or  not ;  my 
life's  work  awaits  me.  Though  my 
heart  must  henceforth  enclose  a  red 
flame  vainly  striving  to  devour  empti- 
ness, still  I  must  go  back  to  that  Para- 
dise which  will  nevermore  be  Paradise 
to  me.  I  owe  the  Gods  a  new  divinity, 
hard  won  by  my  studies,  before  I 
may  think  of  happiness.  Forgive  me, 
Devayani,  and  know  that  my  suffering 
is  doubled  by  the  pain  I  unwillingly 
inflict  on  you. 


86  THE  FUGITIVE 

Devayani 

Forgiveness  I  You  have  angered  my 
heart  till  it  is  hard  and  burning  like 
a  thunderbolt  1  You  can  go  back  to 
your  work  and  your  glory,  but  what 
is  left  for  me?  Memory  is  a  bed  of 
thorns,  and  secret  shame  will  gnaw  at 
the  roots  of  my  life.  You  came  like  a 
wayfarer,  sat  through  the  sunny  hours 
in  the  shade  of  my  garden,  and  to  while 
time  away  you  plucked  all  its  flowers 
and  wove  them  into  a  chain.  And 
now,  parting,  you  snap  the  thread 
and  let  the  flowers  drop  on  the  dust  I 
Accursed  be  that  great  knowledge  you 
have  earned  I — a  burden  that,  though 
others  share  equally  with  you,  will 
never  be  lightened.  For  lack  of  love 
may  it  ever  remain  as  foreign  to  your 
life  as  the  cold  stars  are  to  the  un- 
espoused  darkness  of  virgin  Night  I 


21 


"Why  these  preparations  without 
end  ? " — I  said  to  Mind — "  Is  some  one 
to  come  ? " 

Mind  replied, "  I  am  enormously  busy 
gathering  things  and  building  towers.  I 
have  no  time  to  answer  such  questions." 

Meekly  I  went  back  to  my  work. 

When  things  were  grown  to  a  pile, 
when  seven  wings  of  his  palace  were 
complete,  I  said  to  Mind,  "Is  it  not 
enough  ? " 

Mind  began  to  say,  "  Not  enough  to 
contain "  and  then  stopped. 

"  Contain  what  ? "  I  asked. 

Mind  affected  not  to  hear. 
87 


88  THE  FUGITIVE 

I  suspected  that  Mind  did  not  know, 
and  with  ceaseless  work  smothered  the 
question. 

His  one  refrain  was,  "  I  must  have 
more." 

"Why  must  you?" 

"Because  it  is  great." 

"What  is  great?" 

Mind  remained  silent.  I  pressed  for 
an  answer. 

In  contempt  and  anger.  Mind  said, 
"  Why  ask  about  things  that  are  not  ? 
Take  notice  of  those  that  are  hugely 
before  you, — the  struggle  and  the  fight, 
the  army  and  armaments,  the  bricks 
and  mortar,  and  labourers  without 
number." 

I  thought  "Possibly  Mind  is  wise." 


u 

Days  passed.    More  wings  were  added 
to  his  palace — more  lands  to  his  domain. 


THE  FUGITIVE  39 

The  season  of  rains  came  to  an  end. 
The  dark  clouds  became  white  and  thin, 
and  in  the  rain-washed  sky  the  sunny 
hours  hovered  like  butterflies  over  an 
unseen  flower.  I  was  bewildered  and 
asked  everybody  I  met,  "  What  is  that 
music  in  the  breeze  ?  " 

A  tramp  walked  the  road  whose  dress 
was  wild  as  his  manner  ;  he  said,  "  Hark 
to  the  music  of  the  Coming  ! " 

I  cannot  tell  why  I  was  convinced, 
but  the  words  broke  from  me,  "We 
have  not  much  longer  to  wait." 

"  It  is  close  at  hand,"  said  the  mad 
man. 

I  went  to  the  office  and  boldly  said 
to  Mind,  '*  Stop  all  work  I " 

Mind  asked,  *'  Have  you  any  news  ? " 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "News  of  the 
Coming."     But  I  could  not  explain. 

Mind  shook  his  head  and  said,  "  There 
are  neither  banners  nor  pageantry  1 " 


40  THE  FUGITIVE 

III 

The  night  waned,  the  stars  paled 
in  the  sky.  Suddenly  the  touchstone 
of  the  morning  light  tinged  everything 
with  gold.  A  cry  spread  from  mouth 
to  mouth — 

"  Here  is  the  herald  ! " 

I  bowed  my  head  and  asked,  "  Is  he 
coming  ?  '* 

The  answer  seemed  to  burst  from  all 
sides,  "Yes." 

Mind  grew  troubled  and  said,  "The 
dome  of  my  building  is  not  yet  finished, 
nothing  is  in  order." 

A  voice  came  from  the  sky,  "Pull 
down  your  building  1 " 

"  But  why  ? "  asked  Mind. 

"  Because  to-day  is  the  day  of  the 
Coming,  and  your  building  is  in  the 
way." 


THE  FUGITIVE  41 

IV 

The  lofty  building  lies  in  the  dust 
and  all  is  scattered  and  broken. 

Mind  looked  about.  But  what  was 
there  to  see  ? 

Only  the  morning  star  and  the  lily 
washed  in  dew. 

And  what  else?  A  child  running 
laughing  from  its  mother's  arms  into 
the  open  light. 

"  Was  it  only  for  this  that  they  said 
it  was  the  day  of  the  Coming  ? " 

"Yes,  this  was  why  they  said  there 
was  music  in  the  air  and  light  in 
the  sky." 

"And  did  they  claim  all  the  earth 
only  for  this  ?  " 

"Yes,"  came  the  answer.  "Mind, 
you  build  walls  to  imprison  yourself. 
Your  servants  toil  to  enslave  them- 
selves ;  but  the  whole  earth  and  infinite 
space  are  for  the  child,  for  the  New 
Life." 


42  THE  FUGITIVE 

"  What  does  that  child  bring  you  ?  ** 
"  Hope  for  all  the  world  and  its  joy." 
Mind  asked  me, "  Poet,  do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"  I  lay  my  work  aside,"  I  said,  "  for 
I  must  have  time  to  understand." 


22 
TRANSLATIONS 


48 


VAISHNAVA   SONGS 


Oh  Sakhi/  my  sorrow  knows  no 
bounds. 

August  comes  laden  with  rain  clouds 
and  my  house  is  desolate. 

The  stormy  sky  growls,  the  earth  is 
flooded  with  rain,  my  love  is  far  away, 
and  my  heart  is  torn  with  anguish. 

The  peacocks  dance,  for  the  clouds 
rumble  and  frogs  croak. 

The  night  brims  with  darkness 
flicked  with  lightning. 

Vidyapati^  asks,  "Maiden,  how  are 
you  to  spend  your  days  and  nights 
without  your  lord  ? " 

^  The  woman  friend  of  a  woman. 

^,  The  name  of  the  poet. 

45 


46  THE  FUGITIVE 

2 

Lucky  was  my  awakening  this  morn- 
ing, for  I  saw  my  beloved. 

The  sky  was  one  piece  of  joy,  and 
my  life  and  youth  were  fulfilled. 

To-day  my  house  becomes  my  house 
in  truth,  and  my  body  my  body. 

Fortune  has  proved  a  friend,  and  my 
doubts  are  dispelled. 

Birds,  sing  your  best ;  moon,  shed 
your  fairest  light  I 

Let  fly  your  darts,  Love-God,  in 
millions ! 

I  wait  for  the  moment  when  my 
body  will  grow  golden  at  his  touch. 

Vidyapati  says,  "Immense  is  your 
good  fortune,  and  blessed  is  your  love." 

3 

I  feel  my  body  vanishing  into  the 
dust  whereon  my  beloved  walks. 

I  feel  one  with  the  water  of  the  lake 
where  he  bathes. 


THE  FUGITIVE  47 

Oh  Sakhi,  my  love  crosses  death's 
boundary  when  I  meet  him. 

My  heart  melts  in  the  light  and 
merges  in  the  mirror  whereby  he  views 
his  face. 

I  move  with  the  air  to  kiss  him 
when  he  waves  his  fan,  and  wherever 
he  wanders  I  enclose  him  like  the  sky. 

Govindadas  says,  "  You  are  the  gold- 
setting,  fair  maiden,  he  is  the  emerald." 


My  love,  I  will  keep  you  hidden  in 
my  eyes ;  I  will  thread  your  image 
like  a  gem  on  my  joy  and  hang  it  on 
my  bosom. 

You  have  been  in  my  heart  ever  since 
I  was  a  child,  throughout  my  youth, 
throughout  my  life,  even  through  all 
my  dreams. 

You  dwell  in  my  being  when  I  sleep 
and  when  I  wake. 


48  THE  FUGITIVE 

Know  that  I  am  a  woman,  and  bear 
with  me  when  you  find  me  wanting. 

For  I  have  thought  and  thought  and 
know  for  certain  that  all  that  is  left 
for  me  in  this  world  is  your  love,  and 
if  I  lose  you  for  a  moment  I  die. 

Chandidas  says,  "  Be  tender  to  her 
who  is  yours  in  life  and  death." 

5 

"Fruit  to  sell.  Fruit  to  sell,"  cried 
the  woman  at  the  door. 

The  Child  came  out  of  the  house. 

*'  Give  me  some  fruit,"  said  he,  put- 
ting a  handful  of  rice  in  her  basket 

The  fruit-seller  gazed  at  his  face  and 
her  eyes  swam  with  tears. 

"  Who  is  the  fortunate  mother,"  she 
cried,  *'  that  has  clasped  you  in  her  arms 
and  fed  you  at  her  breast,  and  whom 
your  dear  voice  called  *  Mother '  ? " 

"  Offer  your  fruit  to  him,"  says  the 
poet,  "  and  with  it  your  life." 


II 


49  £ 


Endlessly  varied  art  thou  in  the 
exuberant  world.  Lady  of  Manifold 
Magnificence.  Thy  path  is  strewn 
with  lights,  thy  touch  thrills  into 
flowers ;  that  trailing  skirt  of  thine 
sweeps  the  whirl  of  a  dance  among 
the  stars,  and  thy  many-toned  music 
is  echoed  from  innumerable  worlds 
through  signs  and  colours. 

Single  and  alone  in  the  unfathomed 
stillness  of  the  soul,  art  thou.  Lady  of 
Silence  and  Solitude,  a  vision  thrilled 
with  light,  a  lonely  lotus  blossoming 
on  the  stem  of  love. 

2 

Behind  the  rusty  iron  gratings  of 
the  opposite  window  sits  a  girl,  dark 

51 


52  THE  FUGITIVE 

and  plain  of  face,  like  a  boat  stranded 
on  a  sand-bank  when  the  river  is 
shallow  in  the  summer. 

I  come  back  to  my  room  after  my 
day's  work,  and  my  tired  eyes  are  lured 
to  her. 

She  seems  to  me  like  a  lake  with  its 
dark  lonely  waters  edged  by  moonlight. 

She  has  only  her  window  for  free- 
dom :  there  the  morning  light  meets 
her  musings,  and  through  it  her  dark 
eyes  like  lost  stars  travel  back  to  their 
sky. 


I  remember  the  day. 

The  heavy  shower  of  rain  is  slackening 
into  fitful  pauses,  renewed  gusts  of  wind 
startle  it  from  a  first  lull. 

I  take  up  my  instrument.  Idly  I 
touch  the  strings,  till,  without  my  know- 
ing, the  music  borrows  the  mad  cadence 
of  that  storm. 


THE  FUGITIVE  53 

I  see  her  figure  as  she  steals  from 
her  work,  stops  at  my  door,  and  retreats 
with  hesitating  steps.  She  comes  again, 
stands  outside  leaning  against  the  wall, 
then  slowly  enters  the  room  and  sits 
down.  With  head  bent,  she  plies  her 
needle  in  silence ;  but  soon  stops  her 
work,  and  looks  out  of  the  window 
through  the  rain  at  the  blurred  line  of 
trees. 

Only  this — one  hour  of  a  rainy  noon 
filled  with  shadows  and  song  and  silence. 


While  stepping  into  the  carriage  she 
turned  her  head  and  threw  me  a  swift 
glance  of  farewell 

This  was  her  last  gift  to  me.  But 
where  can  I  keep  it  safe  from  the 
trampling  hours  ? 

Must  evening  sweep  this  gleam  of 
anguish  away,  as  it  will  the  last  flicker 
of  fire  from  the  sunset  ? 


54  THE  FUGITIVE 

Ought  it  to  be  washed  off  by  the 
rain,  as  treasured  pollens  are  from  heart- 
broken flowers  ? 

Leave  kingly  glory  and  the  wealth 
of  the  rich  to  death.  But  may  not 
tears  keep  ever  fresh  the  memory  of 
a  glance  flung  through  a  passionate 
moment  ? 

"Give  it  to  me  to  keep,"  said  my 
song;  "I  never  touch  kings'  glory  or 
the  wealth  of  the  rich,  but  these  small 
things  are  mine  for  ever." 


You  give  yourself  to  me,  like  a 
flower  that  blossoms  at  night,  whose 
presence  is  known  by  the  dew  that 
drips  from  it,  by  the  odour  shed  through 
the  darkness,  as  the  first  steps  of 
Spring  are  by  the  buds  that  thicken 
the  twigs. 

You   break   upon  my  thought  like 


THE  FUGITIVE  55 

waves  at  the  high  tide,  and  my  heart  is 
drowned  under  surging  songs. 

My  heart  knew  of  your  coming,  as 
the  night  feels  the  approach  of  dawn. 
The  clouds  are  aflame  and  my  sky  fills 
with  a  great  revealing  flood. 

6 

I  was  to  go  away ;  still  she  did  not 
speak.  But  I  felt,  from  a  slight  quiver, 
her  yearning  arms  would  say  :  "  Ah  no, 
not  yet." 

I  have  often  heard  her  pleading  hands 
vocal  in  a  touch,  though  they  knew  not 
what  they  said. 

I  have  known  those  arms  to  stammer 
when,  had  they  not,  they  would  have 
become  youth's  garland  round  my 
neck. 

Their  little  gestures  return  to  remem- 
brance in  the  covert  of  still  hours,  like 
truants  they  playfully  reveal  things  she 
had  kept  secret  from  me. 


66  THE  FUGITIVE 

7 

My  songs  are  like  bees ;  they  follow 
through  the  air  some  fragrant  trace — 
some  memory — of  you,  to  hum  around 
your  shyness,  eager  for  its  hidden  store. 

When  the  freshness  of  dawn  droops  in 
the  sun,  when  in  the  noon  the  air  hangs 
low  with  heaviness  and  the  forest  is 
silent,  my  songs  return  home,  their 
languid  wings  dusted  with  gold. 

8 

I  believe  you  had  visited  me  in  a 
vision  before  we  ever  met,  like  some 
foretaste  of  April  before  the  spring 
broke  into  flower. 

That  vision  must  have  come  when  all 
was  bathed  in  the  odour  of  sal  blossom  ; 
when  the  twihght  twinkle  of  the  river 
fringed  its  yellow  sands,  and  the  vague 
sounds  of  a  summer  afternoon  were 
blended  ;  yes,  and  had  it  not  laughed  and 


THE  FUGITIVE  57 

evaded  me  in  many  a  nameless  gleam 
at  other  moments  ? 

9 

I  think  I  shall  stop  startled  if  ever 
we  meet  after  our  next  birth,  walking 
in  the  light  of  a  far-away  world. 

I  shall  know  those  dark  eyes  then  as 
morning  stars,  and  yet  feel  that  they 
have  belonged  to  some  unremembered 
evening  sky  of  a  former  life. 

I  shall  know  that  the  magic  of  your 
face  is  not  all  its  own,  but  has  stolen 
the  passionate  light  that  was  in  my  eyes 
at  some  immemorial  meeting,  and  then 
gathered  from  my  love  a  mystery  that 
has  now  forgotten  its  origin. 

10 

Lay  down  your  lute,  my  love,  leave 
your  arms  free  to  embrace  me. 

Let  your  touch  bring  my  overflowing 
heart  to  my  body's  utmost  brink. 


58  THE  FUGITIVE 

Do  not  bend  your  neck  and  turn 
away  your  face,  but  offer  up  a  kiss  to 
me,  which  has  been  like  some  perfume 
long  closed  in  a  bud. 

Do  not  smother  this  moment  under 
vain  words,  but  let  our  hearts  quake  in 
a  rush  of  silence  sweeping  all  thoughts 
to  the  shoreless  delight 


11 

You  have  made  me  great  with  your 
love,  though  I  am  but  one  among  the 
many,  drifting  in  the  common  tide, 
rocking  in  the  fluctuant  favour  of  the 
world. 

You  have  given  me  a  seat  where 
poets  of  all  time  bring  their  tribute, 
and  lovers  with  deathless  names  greet 
one  another  across  the  ages. 

Men  hastily  pass  me  in  the  market, — 
never  noting  how  my  body  has  grown 
precious  with  your  caress,  how  I  carry 


THE  FUGITIVE  59 

your  kiss  within,  as  the  sun  carries  in 
its  orb  the  fire  of  the  divine  touch  and 
shines  for  ever. 

12 

Like  a  child  that  frets  and  pushes 
away  its  toys,  my  heart  to-day  shakes 
its  head  at  every  phrase  I  suggest,  and 
says,  "  No,  not  this." 

Yet  words,  in  the  agony  of  their 
vagueness,  haunt  my  mind,  like  vagrant 
clouds  hovering  over  hills,  waiting  for 
some  chance  wind  to  relieve  them  of 
their  rain. 

But  leave  these  vain  efforts,  my  soul, 
for  the  stillness  will  ripen  its  own  music 
in  the  dark. 

My  life  to-day  is  like  a  cloister  dur- 
ing some  penance,  where  the  spring  is 
afraid  to  stir  or  to  whisper. 

This  is  not  the  time,  my  love,  for  you 
to  pass  the  gate ;  at  the  mere  thought 


60  THE  FUGITIVE 

of  your  anklet  bells  tinkling  down  the 
path,  the  garden  echoes  are  ashamed. 

Know  that  to-morrow's  songs  are  in 
bud  to-day,  and  should  they  see  you 
walk  by  they  would  strain  to  breaking 
their  immature  hearts. 

13 

Whence  do  you  bring  this  disquiet, 
my  love  ? 

Let  my  heart  touch  yours  and  kiss 
the  pain  out  of  your  silence. 

The  night  has  thrown  up  from  its 
depth  this  little  hour,  that  love  may 
build  a  new  world  within  these  shut 
doors,  to  be  lighted  by  this  solitary  lamp. 

We  have  for  music  but  a  single  reed 
which  our  two  pairs  of  lips  must  play 
on  by  turns — for  crown,  only  one  gar- 
land to  bind  my  hair  after  I  have  put 
it  on  your  forehead. 

Tearing  the  veil  from  my  breast  I 
shall  make  our  bed  on  the  floor;  and 


THE  FUGITIVE  61 

one  kiss  and  one  sleep  of  delight  shall  fill 
our  small  boundless  world. 


14 

All  that  I  had  I  gave  to  you,  keep- 
ing but  the  barest  veil  of  reserve. 

It  is  so  thin  that  you  secretly  smile 
at  it  and  I  feel  ashamed. 

The  gust  of  the  spring  breeze  sweeps 
it  away  unawares,  and  the  flutter  of  my 
own  heart  moves  it  as  the  waves  move 
their  foam. 

My  love,  do  not  grieve  if  I  keep  this 
flimsy  mist  of  distance  round  me. 

This  frail  reserve  of  mine  is  no  mere 
woman's  coyness,  but  a  slender  stem  on 
which  the  flower  of  my  self-surrender 
bends  towards  you  with  reticent  grace. 

15 

I  have  donned  this  new  robe  to-day 
because  my  body  feels  like  singing. 


62  THE  FUGITIVE 

It  is  not  enough  that  I  am  given  to 
my  love  once  and  for  ever,  but  out  of 
that  I  must  fashion  new  gifts  every 
day ;  and  shall  I  not  seem  a  fresh  offer- 
ing, dressed  in  a  new  robe  ? 

My  heart,  like  the  evening  sky,  has 
its  endless  passion  for  colour,  and  there- 
fore I  change  my  veils,  which  have  now 
the  green  of  the  cool  young  grass  and 
now  that  of  the  winter  rice. 

To-day  my  robe  is  tinted  with  the 
rain-rimmed  blue  of  the  sky.  It  brings 
to  my  limbs  the  colour  of  the  boundless, 
the  colour  of  the  oversea  hills ;  and  it 
carries  in  its  folds  the  delight  of  summer 
clouds  flying  in  the  wind. 

16 

I  thought  I  would  write  love's  words 
in  their  own  colour  ;  but  that  lies  deep 
in  the  heart,  and  tears  are  pale. 

Would  you  know  them,  friend,  if  the 
words  were  colourless  ? 


THE  FUGITIVE  68 

I  thought  I  would  sing  love's  words 
to  their  own  tune,  but  that  sounds  only 
in  my  heart,  and  my  eyes  are  silent. 

Would  you  know  them,  friend,  if 
there  were  no  tune  ? 

17 

In  the  night  the  song  came  to  me  ; 
but  you  were  not  there. 

It  found  the  words  for  which  I  had 
been  seeking  all  day.  Yes,  in  the 
stillness  a  moment  after  dark  they 
throbbed  into  music,  even  as  the  stars 
then  began  to  pulse  with  light;  but 
you  were  not  there.  My  hope  was  to 
sing  it  to  you  in  the  morning ;  but,  try 
as  I  might,  though  the  music  came, 
the  words  hung  back,  when  you  were 
beside  me. 

18 
The  night   deepens   and   the  dying 
flame  flickers  in  the  lamp. 


64  THE  FUGITIVE 

I  forgot  to  notice  when  the  evening 
— like  a  village  girl  who  has  filled  her 
pitcher  at  the  river  a  last  time  for  that 
day — closed  the  door  on  her  cabin. 

I  was  speaking  to  you,  my  love,  with 
mind  barely  conscious  of  my  voice — 
tell  me,  had  it  any  meaning  ?  Did  it 
bring  you  any  message  from  beyond 
life's  borders  ? 

For  now,  since  my  voice  has  ceased, 
I  feel  the  night  throbbing  with  thoughts 
that  gaze  in  awe  at  the  abyss  of  their 
dumbness. 

19 

When  we  two  first  met  my  heart  rang 
out  m  music,  "  She  who  is  eternally 
afar  is  beside  you  for  ever." 

That  music  is  silent,  because  I  have 
grown  to  believe  that  my  love  is  only 
near,  and  have  forgotten  that  she  is 
also  far,  far  away. 

Music  fills  the  infinite  between  two 


THE  FUGITIVE  65 

souls.  This  has  been  muffled  by  the 
mist  of  our  daily  habits. 

On  shy  summer  nights,  when  the 
breeze  brings  a  vast  murmur  out  of 
the  silence,  I  sit  up  in  my  bed  and 
mourn  the  great  loss  of  her  who  is 
beside  me.  I  ask  myself,  "  When  shall 
I  have  another  chance  to  whisper  to 
her  words  with  the  rhythm  of  eternity 
in  them  ? " 

Wake  up,  my  song,  from  thy  languor, 
rend  this  screen  of  the  familiar,  and  fly 
to  my  beloved  there,  in  the  endless 
surprise  of  our  first  meeting  1 

20 

Lovers  come  to  you,  my  Queen,  and 
proudly  lay  their  riches  at  your  feet : 
but  my  tribute  is  made  up  of  unfulfilled 
hopes. 

Shadows  have  stolen  across  the  heart 
of  my  world  and  the  best  in  me  has  lost 
light 


66  THE  FUGITIVE 

While  the  fortunate  laugh  at  my 
penury,  I  ask  you  to  lend  my  failings 
your  tears,  and  so  make  them  precious. 

I  bring  you  a  voiceless  instrument. 

I  strained  to  reach  a  note  which  was 
too  high  in  my  heart,  and  the  string 
broke. 

While  masters  laugh  at  the  snapped 
cord,  I  ask  you  to  take  my  lute  m  your 
hands  and  fill  its  hoUowness  with  your 
songs. 

21 

The  father  came  back  from  the 
funeral  rites. 

His  boy  of  seven  stood  at  the  win- 
dow, with  eyes  wide  open  and  a  golden 
amulet  hanging  from  his  neck,  full  of 
thoughts  too  difficult  for  his  age. 

His  father  took  him  in  his  arms 
and  the  boy  asked  him,  "Where  is 
mother?" 


THE  FUGITIVE  67 

"In  heaven,"  answered  his  father, 
pointing  to  the  sky. 

At  night  the  father  groaned  in 
slumber,  weary  with  grief. 

A  lamp  dimly  burned  near  the  bed- 
room door,  and  a  lizard  chased  moths 
on  the  wall. 

The  boy  woke  up  from  sleep,  felt 
with  his  hands  the  emptiness  in  the 
bed,  and  stole  out  to  the  open  terrace. 

The  boy  raised  his  eyes  to  the 
sky  and  long  gazed  in  silence.  His 
bewildered  mind  sent  abroad  into  the 
night  the  question,  "  Where  is  heaven  ? " 

No  answer  came :  and  the  stars 
seemed  like  the  burning  tears  of  that 
ignorant  darkness. 


22 

She  went  away  when  the  night  was 
about  to  wane. 


68  THE  FUGITIVE 

My  mind  tried  to  console  me  by  say- 
ing, "  All  is  vanity." 

I  felt  angry  and  said,  "  That  un- 
opened letter  with  her  name  on  it,  and 
this  palm-leaf  fan  bordered  with  red 
silk  by  her  own  hands,  are  they  not 
real?" 

The  day  passed,  and  my  friend  came 
and  said  to  me,  *'  Whatever  is  good  is 
true,  and  can  never  perish." 

"How  do  you  know?"  I  asked  im- 
patiently ;  "  was  not  this  body  good 
which  is  now  lost  to  the  world  ?  " 

As  a  fretful  child  hurting  its  own 
mother,  I  tried  to  wreck  all  the  shelters 
that  ever  I  had,  in  and  about  me,  and 
cried,  "  This  world  is  treacherous." 

Suddenly  I  felt  a  voice  saying — 
"Ungrateful!" 

I  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  a 
reproach  seemed  to  come  from  the  star- 
sprinkled  night, — "  You  pour  out  into 


THE  FUGITIVE  69 

the  void  of  my  absence  your  faith  in 
the  truth  that  I  came  1 " 

23 

The  river  is  grey  and  the  air  dazed 
with  blown  sand. 

On  a  morning  of  dark  disquiet,  when 
the  birds  are  mute  and  their  nests 
shake  in  the  gust,  I  sit  alone  and  ask 
myself,  "  Where  is  she  ? " 

The  days  have  flown  wherein  we  sat 
too  near  each  other ;  we  laughed  and 
jested,  and  the  awe  of  love's  majesty 
found  no  words  at  our  meetings. 

I  made  myself  small,  and  she  trifled 
away  every  moment  with  pelting  talk. 

To-day  I  wish  in  vain  that  she  were 
by  me,  in  the  gloom  of  the  coming 
storm,  to  sit  in  the  soul's  solitude. 

24 

The  name  she  called  me  by,  like  a 
flourishing  jasmine,  covered  the  whole 


70  THE  FUGITIVE 

seventeen  years  of  our  love.  With  its 
sound  mingled  the  quiver  of  the  light 
through  the  leaves,  the  scent  of  the 
grass  in  the  rainy  night,  and  the  sad 
silence  of  the  last  hour  of  many  an 
idle  day. 

Not  the  work  of  God  alone  was 
he  who  answered  to  that  name ;  she 
created  him  again  for  herself  during 
those  seventeen  swift  years. 

Other  years  were  to  follow,  but  their 
vagrant  days,  no  longer  gathered  with- 
in the  fold  of  that  name  uttered  in  her 
voice,  stray  and  are  scattered. 

They  ask  me,  "  Who  should  fold  us  ? " 

I  find  no  answer  and  sit  silent,  and 
they  cry  to  me  while  dispersing,  "  We 
seek  a  shepherdess  I " 

Whom  should  they  seek  ? 

That  they  do  not  know.  And  like 
derelict  evening  clouds  they  drift  in 
the  trackless  dark,  and  are  lost  and 
forgotten. 


THE  FUGITIVE  71 

25 

I  feel  that  your  brief  days  of  love 
have  not  been  left  behind  in  those 
scanty  years  of  your  life. 

I  seek  to  know  in  what  place,  away 
from  the  slow-thieving  dust,  you  keep 
them  now.  I  find  in  my  solitude  some 
song  of  your  evening  that  died,  yet  left 
a  deathless  echo  ;  and  the  sighs  of  your 
unsatisfied  hours  I  find  nestled  in  the 
warm  quiet  of  the  autumn  noon. 

Your  desires  come  from  the  hive 
of  the  past  to  haunt  my  heart,  and 
I  sit  still  to  listen  to  their  wings. 

26 

You  have  taken  a  bath  in  the  dark 
sea.  You  are  once  again  veiled  in  a 
bride's  robe,  and  through  death's  arch 
you  come  back  to  repeat  our  wedding 
in  the  soul. 

Neither  lute  nor  drum  is  struck,  no 


72  THE  FUGITIVE 

crowd   has   gathered,  not  a  wreath   is 
hung  on  the  gate. 

Your  un uttered  words  meet  mine  in 
a  ritual  unillumined  by  lamps. 

27 

I  was  walking  along  a  path  over- 
grown with  grass,  when  suddenly  I  heard 
from  some  one  behind,  "  See  if  you  know 
me?" 

I  turned  round  and  looked  at  her  and 
said,  '*  I  cannot  remember  your  name." 

She  said,  "  I  am  that  first  great 
Sorrow  whom  you  met  when  you  were 
young." 

Her  eyes  looked  like  a  morning 
whose  dew  is  still  in  the  air. 

I  stood  silent  for  some  time  till  I 
said,  "  Have  you  lost  all  the  great 
burden  of  your  tears  ?  " 

She  smiled  and  said  nothing.  I  felt 
that  her  tears  had  had  time  to  learn 
the  language  of  smiles. 


THE  FUGITIVE  73 

"  Once  you  said,"  she  whispered, "  that 
you  would  cherish  your  grief  for  ever." 

I  blushed  and  said,  "  Yes,  but  years 
have  passed  and  I  forget." 

Then  I  took  her  hand  in  mine  and 
said,  "  But  you  have  changed." 

'*  What  was  sorrow  once  has  now 
become  peace,"  she  said. 

28 

Our  life  sails  on  the  uncrossed  sea 
whose  waves  chase  each  other  in  an 
eternal  hide-and-seek. 

It  is  the  restless  sea  of  change,  feed- 
ing its  foaming  flocks  to  lose  them  over 
and  over  again,  beating  its  hands  against 
the  calm  of  the  sky. 

Love,  in  the  centre  of  this  circling 
war-dance  of  light  and  dark,  yours  is 
that  green  island,  where  the  sun  kisses 
the  shy  forest  shade  and  silence  is  wooed 
by  birds'  singing. 


29 
AMA  AND  VINAYAKA 


75 


AMA  AND  VINAYAKA 

Night  on  the  battlefield :  Ama  meets  her 
father  Vinayaka. 

Ama 
Father  I 

Vinayaka 

Shameless  wanton,  you  call  me 
"  Father "  I  you  who  did  not  shrink 
from  a  Mussulman  husband  I 

Ama 

Though  you  have  treacherously  killed 
my  husband,  yet  you  are  my  father; 
and  I  hold  back  a  widow's  tears,  lest 
they  bring  God's  curse  on  you.     Since 

77 


78  THE  FUGITIVE 

we  have  met  on  this  battlefield  after 
years  of  separation,  let  me  bow  to  your 
feet  and  take  my  last  leave  1 

ViNAYAKA 

Where  will  you  go,  Ama  ?  The  tree 
on  which  you  built  your  impious  nest 
is  hewn  down.  Where  will  you  take 
shelter  ? 

Ama 

I  have  my  son. 

ViNAYAKA 

Leave  him  I  Cast  never  a  fond  look 
back  on  the  result  of  a  sin  expiated  with 
blood  I     Think  where  to  go. 

Ama 

Death's  open  gates  are  wider  than  a 
father's  love  1 


THE  FUGITIVE  79 

ViNAYAKA 

Death  indeed  swallows  sins  as  the 
sea  swallows  the  mud  of  rivers.  But 
you  are  to  die  neither  to-night  nor 
here.  Seek  some  solitary  shrine  of  holy 
Shiva  far  from  shamed  kindred  and  all 
neighbours  ;  bathe  three  times  a  day  in 
sacred  Ganges,  and,  while  reciting  God's 
name,  listen  to  the  last  bell  of  evening 
worship,  that  Death  may  look  tenderly 
upon  you,  as  a  father  on  his  sleeping 
child  whose  eyes  are  still  wet  with 
tears.  Let  him  gently  carry  you  into 
his  own  great  silence,  as  the  Ganges 
carries  a  fallen  flower  on  its  stream, 
washing  every  stain  away  to  render  it, 
a  fit  offering,  to  the  sea. 

Ama 
But  my  son 

ViNAYAKA 

Again  I  bid  you  not  to  speak  of  him. 
Lay  yourself  once  more  in  a  father's 


80  THE  FUGITIVE 

arms,  my  child,  like  a  babe  fresh  from 
the  womb  of  Oblivion,  your  second 
mother. 

Ama 

To  me  the  world  has  become  a  shadow. 
Your  words  I  hear,  but  cannot  take  to 
heart.  Leave  me,  father,  leave  me 
alone!  Do  not  try  to  bind  me  with 
your  love,  for  its  bands  are  red  with  my 
husband's  blood. 

ViNAYAKA 

Alas  I  no  flower  ever  returns  to  the 
parent  branch  it  dropped  from.  How 
can  you  call  him  hiLsband  who  forcibly 
snatched  you  from  Jivaji  to  whom  you 
had  been  sacredly  affianced  ?  I  shall 
never  forget  that  night  1  In  the  wed- 
ding hall  we  sat  anxiously  expecting 
the  bridegroom,  for  the  auspicious  hour 
was  dwindling  away.  Then  in  the 
distance  appeared  the  glare  of  torches. 


THE  FUGITIVE  81 

and  bridal  strains  came  floating  up  the 
air.  We  shouted  for  joy  :  women  blew 
their  conch -shells.  A  procession  of 
palanquins  entered  the  courtyard :  but 
while  we  were  asking,  "Where  is 
Jivaji  ? "  armed  men  burst  out  of  the 
litters  like  a  storm,  and  bore  you  off* 
before  we  knew  what  had  happened. 
Shortly  after,  Jivaji  came  to  tell  us  he 
had  been  waylaid  and  captured  by  a 
Mussulman  noble  of  the  Vijapur  court. 
That  night  Jivaji  and  I  touched  the 
nuptial  fire  and  swore  bloody  death 
to  this  villain.  After  waiting  long,  we 
have  been  freed  from  our  solemn  pledge 
to-night;  and  the  spirit  of  Jivaji,  who 
lost  his  life  in  this  battle,  lawfully 
claims  you  for  wife. 

Ama 

Father,  it  may  be  that  I  have  dis- 
graced the  rites  of  your  house,  but  my 
honour   is  unsullied ;    I  loved  him  to 

G 


82  THE  FUGITIVE 

whom  I  bore  a  son.  I  remember  the 
night  when  I  received  two  secret 
messages,  one  from  you,  one  from  my 
mother ;  yours  said :  "  I  send  you  the 
knife  ;  kill  him  1 "  My  mother's  :  "  I 
send  you  the  poison  ;  end  your  life  I " 
Had  unholy  force  dishonoured  me, 
your  double  bidding  had  been  obeyed. 
But  my  body  was  yielded  only  after 
love  had  given  me — love  all  the  greater, 
all  the  purer,  in  that  it  overcame  the 
hereditary  recoil  of  our  blood  from  the 
Mussulman. 

Enter  Rama,  Ama's  motlier 

Ama 

Mother  mine,  I  had  not  hoped  to  see 
you  again.  Let  me  take  dust  from 
your  feet. 

Rama 

Touch  me  not  with  impure  hands ! 


THE  FUGITIVE  83 

Ama 
I  am  as  pure  as  yourself. 

Rama 

To  whom  have  you  surrendered  your 
honour  ? 

Ama 
To  my  husband. 

Rama 

Husband  ?  A  Mussulman  the  hus- 
band of  a  Brahmin  woman  ? 

Ama 

I  do  not  merit  contempt :  I  am  proud 
to  say  I  never  despised  my  husband 
though  a  Mussulman.  If  Paradise  will 
reward  your  devotion  to  your  husband, 
then  the  same  Paradise  waits  for  your 
daughter,  who  has  been  as  true  a  wife. 


84  THE  FUGITIVE 

Rama 

Are  you  indeed  a  true  wife  ? 

Ama 
Yes. 

Rama 

Do  you  know  how  to  die  without 
flinching  ? 

Ama 

I  do. 

Rama 

Then  let  the  funeral  fire  be  lighted 
for  you  I  See,  there  lies  the  body  of 
your  husband. 

Ama 

Jivaji  ? 

Rama 

Yes,  Jivaji.  He  was  your  husband 
by  plighted  troth.     The  baffled  fire  of 


THE  FUGITIVE  85 

the  nuptial  God  has  raged  into  the 
hungry  fire  of  death,  and  the  interrupted 
wedding  shall  be  completed  now. 


ViNAYAKA 

Do  not  listen,  my  child.  Go  back  to 
your  son,  to  your  own  nest  darkened 
with  sorrow.  My  duty  has  been  per- 
formed to  its  extreme  cruel  end,  and 
nothing  now  remains  for  you  to  do. — 
Wife,  your  grief  is  fruitless.  Were 
the  branch  dead  which  was  violently 
snapped  from  our  tree,  I  should  give  it 
to  the  fire.  But  it  has  sent  living  roots 
into  a  new  soil  and  is  bearing  flowers 
and  fruits.  Allow  her,  without  regret, 
to  obey  the  laws  of  those  among  whom 
she  has  loved.  Come,  wife,  it  is  time 
we  cut  all  worldly  ties  and  spent  our 
remainder  lives  in  the  seclusion  of  some 
peaceful  pilgrim  shrine. 


86  THE  FUGITIVE 

Rama 

I  am  ready  :  but  first  must  tread  into 
dust  every  sprout  of  sin  and  shame  that 
has  sprung  from  the  soil  of  our  life.  A 
daughter's  infamy  stains  her  mother's 
honour.  That  black  shame  shall  feed 
glowing  fire  to-night,  and  raise  a  true 
wife's  memorial  over  the  ashes  of  my 
daughter. 

Ama 

Mother,  if  by  force  you  unite  me  in 
death  with  one  who  was  not  my  hus- 
band, then  will  you  bring  a  curse  upon 
yourself  for  desecrating  the  shrine  of 
the  Eternal  Lord  of  Death. 

Rama 

Soldiers,  light  the  fire  ;  surround  the 
woman  1 

Ama 

Father  1 


THE  FUGITIVE  87 

ViNAYAKA 

Do  not  fear.  Alas,  my  child,  that 
you  should  ever  have  to  call  your  father 
to  save  you  from  your  mother's  hands  I 

Ama 
Father  I 

ViNAYAKA 

Come  to  me,  my  darling  child  I 
Mere  vanity  are  these  man-made  laws, 
splashing  like  spray  against  the  rock 
of  heaven's  ordinance.  Bring  your  son 
to  me,  and  we  will  live  together,  my 
daughter.  A  father's  love,  like  God's 
rain,  does  not  judge  but  is  poured  forth 
from  an  abounding  source. 

Rama 

Where  would  you  go  ?  Turn  back  I 
— Soldiers,  stand  firm  in  your  loyalty 


88  THE  FUGITIVE 

to   your   master   Jivaji !   do   your   last 
sacred  duty  by  him  1 

Ama 

Father  1 

ViNAYAKA 

Free  her,  soldiers  I  She  is  my 
daughter. 

Soldiers 
She  is  the  widow  of  our  master. 

ViNAYAKA 

Her  husband,  though  a  Mussulman, 
was  staunch  in  his  own  faith. 

Rama 

Soldiers,  keep  this  old  man  under 
control  I 

Ama 

I  defy  you,  mother  I — You,  soldiers, 
I  defy  I — for  through  death  and  love  I 
win  to  freedom. 


30 

A  painter  was  selling  pictures  at  the 
fair ;  followed  by  servants,  there  passed 
the  son  of  a  minister  who  in  youth  had 
cheated  this  painter's  father  so  that  he 
had  died  of  a  broken  heart. 

The  boy  lingered  before  the  pictures 
and  chose  one  for  himself.  The  painter 
flung  a  cloth  over  it  and  said  he  would 
not  sell  it. 

After  this  the  boy  pined  heart-sick 
till  his  father  came  and  offered  a  large 
price.  But  the  painter  kept  the  picture 
unsold  on  his  shop-wall  and  grimly  sat 
before  it,  saying  to  himself,  "This  is 
my  revenge." 

The  sole  form  this  painter's  worship 

89 


00  THE  FUGITIVE 

took  was  to  trace  an  image  of  his  god 
every  morning. 

And  now  he  felt  these  pictures  grow 
daily  more  different  from  those  he  used 
to  paint. 

This  troubled  him,  and  he  sought  in 
vain  for  an  explanation  till  one  day  he 
started  up  from  work  in  horror  ;  the 
eyes  of  the  god  he  had  just  drawn 
were  those  of  the  minister,  and  so 
were  the  lips. 

He  tore  up  the  picture,  crying,  "  My 
revenge  has  returned  on  my  head  I " 


31 

The  General  came  before  the  silent 
and  angry  King  and  saluting  him  said  : 
"  The  village  is  punished,  the  men  are 
stricken  to  dust,  and  the  women  cower 
in  their  unlit  homes  afraid  to  weep 
aloud." 

The  High  Priest  stood  up  and  blessed 


THE  FUGITIVE  91 

the  King  and  cried :  "  God's  mercy  is 
ever  upon  you." 

The  Clown,  when  he  heard  this, 
burst  out  laughing  and  startled  the 
court.     The  King's  frown  darkened. 

"  The  honour  of  the  throne,'  said  the 
minister,  "is  upheld  by  the  King's 
prowess  and  the  blessing  of  Almighty 
God." 

Louder  laughed  the  Clown,  and  the 
King  growled, — "  Unseemly  mirth  I " 

"God  has  showered  many  blessings 
upon  your  head,"  said  the  Clown;  "the 
one  he  bestowed  on  me  was  the  gift  of 
laughter." 

"This  gift  will  cost  you  your  life," 
said  the  King,  gripping  his  sword  with 
his  right  hand. 

Yet  the  Clown  stood  up  and  laughed 
till  he  laughed  no  more. 

A  shadow  of  dread  fell  upon  the 
Court,  for  they  heard  that  laughter 
echoing  in  the  depth  of  God's  silence. 


32 

THE  MOTHEK'S  PRAYER 


THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER 

Prince  Duryodhana,  the  son  of  the 
blind  Kaurava  King  Dhritarashtra, 
and  qf  Queen  Gandhari,  has  played 
with  his  cousins  the  Pandava  Kings  jor 
their  kingdom,  and  won  it  by  fraud. 

Dhritarashtra 
You  have  compassed  your  end. 

Duryodhana 
Success  is  mine  I 

Dhritarashtra 
Are  you  happy  ? 

Duryodhana 
I  am  victorious. 

95 


96  THE  FUGITIVE 

Dhritarashtra 

I  ask  you  again,  what  happiness  have 
you  in  winning  the  undivided  kingdom? 

DURYODHANA 

Sire,  a  Kshatriy  a  thirsts  not  after  happi- 
ness but  victory,  that  fiery  wine  pressed 
from  seething  jealousy.  Wretchedly 
happy  we  were,  like  those  inglorious 
stains  that  lie  idly  on  the  breast  of  the 
moon,  when  we  lived  in  peace  under 
the  friendly  dominance  of  our  cousins. 
Then  these  Pandavas  milked  the  world 
of  its  wealth,  and  allowed  us  a  share, 
in  brotherly  tolerance.  Now  that  they 
own  defeat  and  expect  banishment,  I 
am  no  longer  happy  but  exultant. 

Dhritarashtra 

Wretch,  you  forget  that  both  Pan- 
davas and  Kauravas  have  the  same 
forefathers. 


THE  FUGITIVE  97 

DURYODHANA 

It  was  difficult  to  forget  that,  and 
therefore  our  inequalities  rankled  in 
my  heart.  At  midnight  the  moon  is 
never  jealous  of  the  noonday  sun.  But 
the  struggle  to  share  one  horizon 
between  both  orbs  cannot  last  forever. 
Thank  heaven,  that  struggle  is  over, 
and  we  have  at  last  won  solitude  in 
glory. 

Dhritarashtra 
The  mean  jealousy  I 

Duryodhana 

Jealousy  is  never  mean — it  is  in  the 
essence  of  greatness.  Grass  can  grow 
in  crowded  amity,  not  giant  trees. 
Stars  live  in  clusters,  but  the  sun  and 
moon  are  lonely  in  their  splendour. 
The  pale  moon  of  the  Pandavas  sets 
behind  the  forest  shadows,  leaving  the 

H 


98  THE  FUGITIVE 

new -risen    sun    of    the    Kauravas    to 
rejoice. 

Dhritarashtba 
But  right  has  been  defeated. 

DUEYODHANA 

Right  for  rulers  is  not  what  is  right 
in  the  eyes  of  the  people.  The  people 
thrive  by  comradeship  :  but  for  a  king, 
equals  are  enemies.  They  are  obstacles 
ahead,  they  are  terrors  from  behind. 
There  is  no  place  for  brothers  or  friends 
in  a  king's  polity  ;  its  one  solid  founda- 
tion is  conquest, 

Dhritarashtra 

I  refuse  to  call  a  conquest  what  was 
won  by  fraud  in  gambling. 

DURYODHANA 

A  man  is  not  shamed  by  refusing  to 
challenge  a  tiger  on  equal  terms  with 


THE  FUGITIVE  99 

teeth  and  nails.  Our  weapons  are 
those  proper  for  success,  not  for  suicide. 
Father,  I  am  proud  of  the  result  and 
disdain  regret  for  the  means. 

Dhritarashtra 
But  justice 

DURYODHANA 

Fools  alone  dream  of  justice — suc- 
cess is  not  yet  theirs :  but  those  born 
to  rule  rely  on  power,  merciless  and 
unhampered  with  scruples. 

Dhritarashtra 

Your  success  will  bring  down  on  you 
a  loud  and  angry  flood  of  detraction. 

DuRYODHANA 

The  people  will  take  amazingly  little 
time  to  learn  that  Duryodhana  is  king 
and  has  power  to  crush  calumny  under 
foot. 


100  THE  FUGITIVE 

Dhritarashtra 

Calumny  dies  of  weariness  dancing 
on  tongue-tips.  Do  not  drive  it  into 
the  heart  to  gather  strength. 

DURYODHANA 

Unuttered  defamation  does  not  touch 
a  king's  dignity.  I  care  not  if  love  is 
refused  us,  but  insolence  shall  not  be 
borne.  Love  depends  upon  the  will  of 
the  giver,  and  the  poorest  of  the  poor 
can  indulge  in  such  generosity.  Let 
them  squander  it  on  their  pet  cats, 
tame  dogs,  and  our  good  cousins  the 
Pandavas.  1  shall  never  envy  them. 
Fear  is  the  tribute  I  claim  for  my  royal 
throna  Father,  only  too  leniently  you 
lent  your  ear  to  those  who  slandered 
your  sons :  but  if  you  intend  still  to 
allow  those  pious  friends  of  yours  to 
revel  in  shrill  denunciation  at  the 
expense  of  your   children,  let   us   ex- 


THE  FUGITIVE  101 

change  our  kingdom  for  the  exile  of 
our  cousins,  and  go  to  the  wilderness, 
where  happily  friends  are  never  cheap  1 

Dhritarashtra 

Could  the  pious  warnings  of  my 
friends  lessen  my  love  for  my  sons, 
then  we  might  be  saved.  But  I  have 
dipped  my  hands  in  the  mire  of  your 
infamy  and  lost  my  sense  of  goodness. 
For  your  sakes  I  have  heedlessly  set 
fire  to  the  ancient  forest  of  our  royal 
lineage — so  dire  is  my  love.  Clasped 
breast  to  breast,  we,  like  a  double 
meteor,  are  blindly  plunging  into  ruin. 
Therefore  doubt  not  my  love;  relax 
not  your  embrace  till  the  brink  of  anni- 
hilation be  reached.  Beat  your  drums 
of  victory,  lift  your  banner  of  triumph. 
In  this  mad  riot  of  exultant  evil, 
brothers  and  friends  will  disperse  till 
nothing  remain  save  the  doomed  father, 
the  doomed  son  and  God's  curse. 


102  THE  FUGITIVE 

Enter  an  Attendant 

Sire,     Queen     Gandhari     asks     for 
audience. 

D  HRIT  AR  ASHTRA 

I  await  her. 

DURYODHANA 

Let  me  take  my  leave.  [JSant. 

Dhritarashtra 

Fly  I     For  you  cannot  bear  the  fire 
of  your  mother's  presence. 

Enter  Queen  Gandhari,  the  mother 

of  DuRYODHANA 

Gandhari 
At  your  feet  I  crave  a  boon. 

Dhritarashtra 
Speak,  your  wish  is  fulfilled. 


THE  FUGITIVE  103 

Gandhari 
The  time  has  come  to  renounce  him. 

Dhritarashtra 
Whom,  my  queen  ? 

Gandhari 
Duryodhana  ! 

Dhritarashtra 
Our  own  son,  Duryodhana  ? 

Gandhari 
Yes  I 

Dhritarashtra 
This  is  a  terrible  boon  for  you,  his 
mother,  to  crave  I 

Gandhari 
The  fathers  of  the   Kauravas,  who 
are  in  Paradise,  join  me  in  beseeching 
you. 


104  THE  FUGITIVE 

Dhritarashtra 

The  divine  Judge  will  punish  him 
who  has  broken  His  laws.  But  I  am 
his  father. 

Gandhari 

Am  I  not  his  mother  ?  Have  I  not 
carried  him  under  my  throbbing  heart  ? 
Yes,  I  ask  you  to  renounce  Duryodhana 
the  unrighteous. 

Dhritarashtra 
What  will  remain  to  us  after  that  ? 

Gandhari 
God's  blessing. 

Dhritarashtra 
And  what  will  that  bring  us  ? 

Gandhari 

New  afflictions.  Pleasure  in  our  son's 
presence,  pride  in  a  new  kingdom,  and 


THE  FUGITIVE  105 

shame  at  knowing  both  purchased  by 
wrong  done  or  connived  at,  like  thorns 
dragged  two  ways,  would  lacerate  our 
bosoms.  The  Pandavas  are  too  proud 
ever  to  accept  back  from  us  the  lands 
which  they  have  relinquished  ;  therefore 
it  is  only  meet  that  we  draw  some 
great  sorrow  down  on  our  heads  so  as 
to  deprive  that  unmerited  reward  of  its 
sting. 

Dhritarashtra 

Queen,  you  inflict  fresh  pain  on  a 
heart  already  rent. 

Gandhari 

Sire,  the  punishment  imposed  on  our 
son  will  be  more  ours  than  his.  A 
judge  callous  to  the  pain  that  he  inflicts 
loses  the  right  to  judge.  And  if  you 
spare  your  son  to  save  yourself  pain, 
then  all  the  culprits  ever  punished  by 
your  hands  wiU  cry  before  God's  throne 


106  THE  FUGITIVE 

for  vengeance, — had  they  not  also  their 
fathers  ? 

Dhritarashtra 

No  more  of  this.  Queen,  I  pray  you. 
Our  son  is  abandoned  of  God  :  that  is 
why  I  cannot  give  him  up.  To  save 
him  is  no  longer  in  my  power,  and 
therefore  my  consolation  is  to  share  his 
guilt  and  tread  the  path  of  destruction, 
his  solitary  companion.  What  is  done 
is  done ;  let  follow  what  must  follow  I 

Gandhari 

Be  calm,  my  heart,  and  patiently  await 
God's  judgment.  Oblivious  night  wears 
on,  the  morning  of  reckoning  nears,  I 
hear  the  thundering  roar  of  its  chariot. 
Woman,  bow  your  head  down  to  the 
dust !  and  as  a  sacrifice  fling  your  heart 
under  those  wheels  I  Darkness  will 
shroud  the  sky,  earth  will  tremble, 
wailing    will    rend    the   air   and   then 


THE  FUGITIVE  107 

comes  the  silent  and  cruel  end, — that 
terrible  peace,  that  great  forgetting, 
and  awful  extinction  of  hatred — the 
supreme  deliverance  rising  from  the 
fire  of  death. 


33 

Fiercely  they  rend  in  pieces  the 
carpet  woven  during  ages  of  prayer  for 
the  welcome  of  the  world's  best  hope. 

The  great  preparations  of  love  lie  a 
heap  of  shreds,  and  there  is  nothing  on 
the  ruined  altar  to  remind  the  mad 
crowd  that  their  god  was  to  have  come. 
In  a  fury  of  passion  they  seem  to  have 
burnt  their  future  to  cinders,  and  with 
it  the  season  of  their  bloom. 

The  air  is  harsh  with  the  cry, "  Victory 
to  the  Brute ! "  The  children  look  hag- 
gard and  aged ;  they  whisper  to  one 
another  that  time  revolves  but  never 
advances,  that  we  are  goaded  to  run 
but  have  nothing  to  reach,  that  creation 
is  like  a  blind  man's  groping. 

I  said  to  myself,  "  Cease  thy  singing. 

109 


no  THE  FUGITIVE 

Song  is  for  one  who  is  to  come,  the 
struggle  without  an  end  is  for  things 
that  are." 

The  road,  that  ever  lies  along  like 
some  one  with  ear  to  the  ground  listen- 
ing for  footsteps,  to-day  gleans  no  hint 
of  coming  guest,  nothing  of  the  house 
at  its  far  end. 

My  lute  said,  **  Trample  me  in  the 
dust." 

I  looked  at  the  dust  by  the  roadside. 
There  was  a  tiny  flower  among  thorns. 
And  I  cried,  "  The  world's  hope  is  not 
dead!" 

The  sky  stooped  over  the  horizon  to 
whisper  to  the  earth,  and  a  hush  of 
expectation  filled  the  air.  I  saw  the 
palm  leaves  clapping  their  hands  to  the 
beat  of  inaudible  music,  and  the  moon 
exchanged  glances  with  the  glistening 
silence  of  the  lake. 

The  road  said  to  me,  *'  Fear  nothing! " 
and  my  lute  said,  "  Lend  me  thy  songs  I " 


34 
TRANSLATIONS 


111 


BAUL  SONGS  1 


This  longing  to  meet  in  the  play  of 
love,  my  Lover,  is  not  only  mine  but 
yours. 

Your  lips  can  smile,  your  flute  make 
music,  only  through  delight  in  my 
love ;  therefore  you  are  importunate 
even  as  I. 

2 

I  sit  here  on  the  road ;  do  not  ask 
me  to  walk  further. 

If  your  love  can  be  complete  without 
mine  let  me  turn  back  from  seeking  you. 

^  The  Bauls  are  a  sect  of  religious  mendicants  in 
Bengal,  unlettered  and  unconventional,  whose  songs 
are  loved  and  sung  by  the  people.  The  literal  mean- 
ing of  the  word  "  Baul "  is  "  the  Mad." 

113  I 


114  THE  FUGITIVE 

I  refuse  to  beg  a  sight  of  you  if  you 
do  not  feel  my  need. 

I  am  blind  with  market  dust  and 
mid-day  glare,  and  so  wait,  in  hopes 
that  your  heart,  my  heart's  lover,  will 
send  you  to  find  me. 

3 

I  am  poured  forth  in  living  notes  of 
joy  and  sorrow  by  your  breath. 

Mornings  and  evenings  in  summer 
and  in  rains,  I  am  fashioned  to  music. 

Should  I  be  wholly  spent  in  some 
flight  of  song,  I  shall  not  grieve,  the 
tune  is  so  dear  to  me. 


My  heart  is  a  flute  he  has  played  on. 
If  ever  it  fall  into  other  hands  let  him 
fling  it  away. 

My  lover's  flute  is  dear  to  him,  there- 
fore if  to-day  alien  breath  have  entered 


THE  FUGITIVE  115 

it  and  sounded  strange  notes,  let  him 
break  it  to  pieces  and  strew  the  dust 
with  them. 

5 

In  love  the  aim  is  neither  pain  nor 
pleasure  but  love  only. 

While  free  love  binds,  division  de- 
stroys it,  for  love  is  what  unites. 

Love  is  lit  from  love  as  fire  from  fire, 
but  whence  came  the  first  flame  ? 

In  your  being  it  leaps  under  the  rod 
of  pain. 

Then,  when  the  hidden  fire  flames 
forth,  the  in  and  the  out  are  one  and 
all  barriers  fall  in  ashes. 

Let  the  pain  glow  fiercely,  burst 
from  the  heart  and  beat  back  darkness, 
need  you  be  afraid  ? 

The  poet  says,  "  Who  can  buy  love 
without  paying  its  price  ?  When  you 
fail  to  give  yourself  you  make  the  whole 
world  miserly." 


116  THE  FUGITIVE 


Eyes  see  only  dust  and  earth,  but  feel 
with  the  heart,  and  know  pure  joy. 

The  delights  blossom  on  all  sides  in 
every  form,  but  where  is  your  heart's 
thread  to  make  a  wreath  of  them  i 

My  master's  flute  sounds  through  all 
things,  drawing  me  out  of  my  lodgings 
wherever  they  may  be,  and  while  I 
listen  I  know  that  every  step  I  take 
is  in  my  master's  house. 

For  he  is  the  sea,  he  is  the  river  that 
leads  to  the  sea,  and  he  is  the  landing- 
place. 

7 

Strange  ways  has  my  guest. 

He  comes  at  times  when  I  am  un- 
prepared, yet  how  can  I  refuse  him  ? 

I  watch  all  night  with  lighted  lamp ; 
he  stays  away ;  when  the  light  goes 
out   and   the   room   is  bare  he  comes 


THE  FUGITIVE  117 

claiming  his  seat,  and  can  I  keep  him 
waiting  ? 

I  laugh  and  make  merry  with  friends, 
then  suddenly  I  start  up,  for  lo !  he 
passes  me  by  in  sorrow,  and  I  know 
my  mirth  was  vain. 

I  have  often  seen  a  smile  in  his  eyes 
when  my  heart  ached,  then  I  knew  my 
sorrow  was  not  real. 

Yet  I  never  complain  when  I  do  not 
understand  him. 


8 

I  am  the  boat,  you  are  the  sea,  and 
also  the  boatman. 

Though  you  never  make  the  shore, 
though  you  let  me  sink,  why  should  I 
be  foolish  and  afraid  ? 

Is  reaching  the  shore  a  greater  prize 
than  losing  myself  with  you  ? 

If  you  are  only  the  haven,  as  they  say, 
then  what  is  the  sea  ? 


118  THE  FUGITIVE 

Let  it  surge  and  toss  me  on  its  waves, 
I  shall  be  content. 

I  live  in  you  whatever  and  however 
you  appear.  Save  me  or  kill  me  as 
you  wish,  only  never  leave  me  in  other 
hands. 

9 

Make  way,  O  bud,  make  way,  burst 
open  thy  heart  and  make  way. 

The  opening  spirit  has  overtaken 
thee,  canst  thou  remain  a  bud  any 
longer  ? 


Ill 


119 


Come,  Spring,  reckless  lover  of  the 
earth,  make  the  forest's  heart  pant  for 
utterance ! 

Come  in  gusts  of  disquiet  where 
flowers  break  open  and  jostle  the  new 
leaves ! 

Burst,  like  a  rebellion  of  light, 
through  the  night's  vigil,  through  the 
lake's  dark  dumbness,  through  the 
dungeon  under  the  dust,  proclaiming 
freedom  to  the  shackled  seeds  ! 

Like  the  laughter  of  lightning,  like 
the  shout  of  a  storm,  break  into  the 
midst  of  the  noisy  town ;  free  stifled 
word  and  unconscious  effort,  reinforce 
our  flagging  fight,  and  conquer  death  1 

121 


122  THE  FUGITIVE 

2 

I  have  looked  on  this  picture  in 
many  a  month  of  March  when  the 
mustard  is  in  bloom — this  lazy  line  of 
the  water  and  the  grey  of  the  sand 
beyond,  the  rough  path  along  the  river- 
bank  carrying  the  comradeship  of  the 
field  into  the  heart  of  the  village. 

I  have  tried  to  capture  in  rhyme  the 
idle  whistle  of  the  wind,  the  beat  of 
the  oar-strokes  from  a  passing  boat. 

I  have  wondered  in  my  mind  how 
simply  it  stands  before  me,  this  great 
world :  with  what  fond  and  familiar 
ease  it  fills  my  heart,  this  encounter 
with  the  Eternal  Stranger. 

3 

The  ferry-boat  plies  between  the  two 
villages  facing  each  other  across  the 
narrow  stream. 

The  water  is  neither  wide  nor  deep — 


THE  FUGITIVE  123 

a  mere  break  in  the  path  that  enhances 
the  small  adventures  of  daily  life,  like  a 
break  in  the  words  of  a  song  across 
which  the  tune  gleefully  streams. 

While  the  towers  of  wealth  rise  high 
and  crash  to  ruin,  these  villages  talk  to 
each  other  across  the  garrulous  stream, 
and  the  ferry-boat  plies  between  them, 
age  after  age,  from  seed-time  to  harvest. 


In  the  evening  after  they  have 
brought  their  cattle  home,  they  sit  on 
the  grass  before  their  huts  to  know 
that  you  are  among  them  unseen,  to 
repeat  in  their  songs  the  name  which 
they  have  fondly  given  you. 

While  kings'  crowns  shine  and  dis- 
appear like  falling  stars,  around  village 
huts  your  name  rises  through  the  still 
night  from  the  simple  hearts  of  your 
lovers  whose  names  are  unrecorded. 


124  THE  FUGITIVE 

5 

In  Baby  s  world,  the  trees  shake  their 
leaves  at  him,  murmuring  verses  in  an 
ancient  tongue  that  dates  from  before 
the  age  of  meaning,  and  the  moon 
feigns  to  be  of  his  own  age — the  solitary 
baby  of  night. 

In  the  world  of  the  old,  flowers  duti- 
fully blush  at  the  make-believe  of  faery 
legends,  and  broken  dolls  confess  that 
they  are  made  of  clay. 

6 

My  worlds  when  I  was  a  child,  you 
were  a  little  girl-neighbour,  a  loving 
timid  stranger. 

Then  you  grew  bold  and  talked  to 
me  across  the  fence,  offering  me  toys 
and  flowers  and  shells. 

Next  you  coaxed  me  away  from  my 
work,  you  tempted  me  into  the  land  of 
the  dusk  or  the  weedy  corner  of  some 
garden  in  mid-day  loneliness. 


THE  FUGITIVE  125 

At  length  you  told  me  stories  about 
bygone  times,  with  which  the  present 
ever  longs  to  meet  so  as  to  be  rescued 
from  its  prison  in  the  moment. 


How  often,  great  Earth,  have  I  felt 
my  being  yearn  to  flow  over  you, 
sharing  in  the  happiness  of  each  green 
blade  that  raises  its  signal  banner  in 
answer  to  the  beckoning  blue  of  the 
sky  I 

I  feel  as  if  I  had  belonged  to  you 
ages  before  I  was  born.  That  is  why, 
in  the  days  when  the  autumn  light 
shimmers  on  the  mellowing  ears  of  rice, 
I  seem  to  remember  a  past  when  my 
mind  was  everywhere,  and  even  to  hear 
voices  as  of  playfellows  echoing  from 
the  remote  and  deeply  veiled  past. 

When,  in  the  evening,  the  cattle 
return  to  their  folds,  raising  dust  from 


126  THE  FUGITIVE 

the  meadow  paths,  as  the  moon  rises 
higher  than  the  smoke  ascending  from 
the  village  huts,  I  feel  sad  as  for  some 
great  separation  that  happened  in  the 
first  morning  of  existence. 


8 

My  mind  still  buzzed  with  the  cares 
of  a  busy  day  ;  I  sat  on  without  noting 
how  twilight  was  deepening  into  dark. 
Suddenly  light  stirred  across  the  gloom 
and  touched  me  as  with  a  finger. 

I  lifted  my  head  and  met  the  gaze  of 
the  full  moon  widened  in  wonder  like 
a  child's.  It  held  my  eyes  for  long, 
and  I  felt  as  though  a  love-letter  had 
been  secretly  dropped  in  at  my  window. 
And  ever  since  my  heart  is  breaking  to 
write  for  answer  something  fragrant  as 
Night's  unseen  flowers — great  as  her 
declaration  spelt  out  in  nameless  stars. 


THE  FUGITIVE  127 

9 

The  clouds  thicken  till  the  morning 
light  seems  like  a  bedraggled  fringe  to 
the  rainy  night. 

A  little  girl  stands  at  her  window, 
still  as  a  rainbow  at  the  gate  of  a 
broken-down  storm. 

She  is  my  neighbour,  and  has  come 
upon  the  earth  like  some  god's  rebellious 
laughter.  Her  mother  in  anger  calls 
her  incorrigible ;  her  father  smiles  and 
calls  her  mad. 

She  is  like  a  runaway  waterfall  leaping 
over  boulders,  like  the  topmost  bamboo 
twig  rustling  in  the  restless  wind. 

She  stands  at  her  window  looking 
out  into  the  sky. 

Her  sister  comes  to  say,  "Mother 
calls  you."     She  shakes  her  head. 

Her  little  brother  with  his  toy  boat 
comes  and  tries  to  pull  her  off  to  play  ; 


128  THE  FUGITIVE 

she  snatches  her  hand  from  his.  The 
boy  persists  and  she  gives  him  a  slap  on 
the  back. 

The  first  great  voice  was  the  voice 
of  wind  and  water  in  the  beginning  of 
earth's  creation. 

That  ancient  cry  of  nature — her 
dumb  call  to  unborn  life — has  reached 
this  child's  heart  and  leads  it  out  alone 
beyond  the  fence  of  our  times  :  so  there 
she  stands,  possessed  by  eternity  ! 

10 

The  kingfisher  sits  still  on  the  prow 
of  an  empty  boat,  while  in  the  shallow 
margin  of  the  stream  a  buffalo  lies  tran- 
quilly blissful,  its  eyes  half  closed  to 
savour  the  luxury  of  cool  mud. 

Undismayed  by  the  barking  of  the 
village  cur,  the  cow  browses  on  the 
bank,  followed  by  a  hopping  group  of 
saliks  hunting  moths. 


THE  FUGITIVE  129 

I  sit  in  the  tamarind  grove,  where 
the  cries  of  dumb  life  congregate — the 
cattle's  lowing,  the  sparrows'  chatter, 
the  shrill  scream  of  a  kite  overhead,  the 
crickets'  chirp,  and  the  splash  of  a  fish 
in  the  water. 

I  peep  into  the  primeval  nursery  of 
life,  where  the  mother  Earth  thrills  at 
the  first  living  clutch  near  her  breast. 


11 

At  the  sleepy  village  the  noon  was 
still  like  a  sunny  midnight  when  my 
holidays  came  to  their  end. 

My  little  girl  of  four  had  followed 
me  all  the  morning  from  room  to  room, 
watching  my  preparations  in  grave 
silence,  till,  wearied,  she  sat  by  the 
door-post  strangely  quiet,  murmuring 
to  herself,  "  Father  must  not  go  I  " 

This  was  the  meal  hour,  when  sleep 
daily   overcame   her,   but   her   mother 

K 


130  THE  FUGITIVE 

had  forgotten  her  and  the  child  was 
too  unhappy  to  complain. 

At  last,  when  I  stretched  out  my 
arms  to  her  to  say  farewell,  she  never 
moved,  but  sadly  looking  at  me  said, 
"  Father,  you  must  not  go  1 " 

And  it  amused  me  to  tears  to  think 
how  this  little  child  dared  to  fight  the 
giant  world  of  necessity  with  no  other 
resource  than  those  few  words,  "  Father, 
you  must  not  go  I  ** 


12 

Take  your  holiday,  my  boy;  there 
are  the  blue  sky  and  the  bare  field,  the 
barn  and  the  ruined  temple  under  the 
ancient  tamarind. 

My  holiday  must  be  taken  through 
yours,  finding  light  in  the  dance  of 
your  eyes,  music  in  your  noisy  shouts. 

To  you  autumn  brings  the  true  holi- 
day freedom :  to  me  it  brings  the  im- 


THE  FUGITIVE  131 

possibility  of  work ;  for  lo  I  you  burst 
into  my  room. 

Yes,  my  holiday  is  an  endless  free- 
dom for  love  to  disturb  me. 


13 

In  the  evening  my  little  daughter 
heard  a  call  from  her  companions  below 
the  window. 

She  timidly  went  down  the  dark 
stairs  holding  a  lamp  in  her  hand,  shield- 
ing it  behind  her  veil. 

I  was  sitting  on  my  terrace  in  the 
star -lit  night  of  March,  when  at  a 
sudden  cry  I  ran  to  see. 

Her  lamp  had  gone  out  in  the  dark 
spiral  staircase.  I  asked,  "  Child,  why 
did  you  cry  ? " 

From  below  she  answered  in  distress, 
"  Father,  I  have  lost  myself  I " 

When   I  came  back  to  the  terrace 


132  THE  FUGITIVE 

under  the  star-lit  night  of  March,  I 
looked  at  the  sky,  and  it  seemed  that  a 
child  was  walking  there  treasuring  many 
lamps  behind  her  veils. 

If  their  light  went  out,  she  would 
suddenly  stop  and  a  cry  would  sound 
from  sky  to  sky,  "  Father,  I  have  lost 
myself  1 " 

14 

The  evening  stood  bewildered  among 
street  lamps,  its  gold  tarnished  by  the 
city  dust. 

A  woman,  gaudily  decked  and  painted, 
leant  over  the  rail  of  her  balcony,  a 
living  fire  waiting  for  its  moths. 

Suddenly  an  eddy  was  formed  in  the 
road  round  a  street-boy  crushed  under 
the  wheels  of  a  carriage,  and  the  woman 
on  the  balcony  fell  to  the  floor  scream- 
ing in  agony,  stricken  with  the  grief  of 
the  great  white-robed  Mother  who  sits 
in  the  world's  inner  shrine. 


THE  FUGITIVE  133 

15 

I  remember  the  scene  on  the  barren 
heath — a  girl  sat  alone  on  the  grass 
before  the  gipsy  camp,  braiding  her 
hair  in  the  afternoon  shade. 

Her  little  dog  jumped  and  barked  at 
her  busy  hands,  as  though  her  employ- 
ment had  no  importance. 

In  vain  did  she  rebuke  it,  calling  it 
"a  pest,"  saying  she  was  tired  of  its 
perpetual  silliness. 

She  struck  it  on  the  nose  with  her 
reproving  forefinger,  which  only  seemed 
to  delight  it  the  more. 

She  looked  menacingly  grave  for  a 
few  moments,  to  warn  it  of  impending 
doom ;  and  then,  letting  her  hair  fall, 
quickly  snatched  it  up  in  her  arms, 
laughed,  and  pressed  it  to  her  heart. 

16 

He  is  tall  and  lean,  withered  to  the 
bone  with  long  repeated  fever,  like  a 


184  THE  FUGITIVE 

dead  tree  unable  to  draw  a  single  drop 
of  sap  from  anywhere. 

In  despairing  patience,  his  mother 
carries  him  like  a  child  into  the  sun, 
where  he  sits  by  the  roadside  in  the 
shortening  shadows  of  each  forenoon. 

The  world  passes  by — a  woman  to 
fetch  water,  a  herd-boy  with  cattle  to 
pasture,  a  laden  cart  to  the  distant 
market — and  the  mother  hopes  that 
some  least  stir  of  life  may  touch  the 
awful  torpor  of  her  dying  son. 

17 

If  the  ragged  villager,  trudging  home 
from  the  market,  could  suddenly  be 
lifted  to  the  crest  of  a  distant  age,  men 
would  stop  in  their  work  and  shout 
and  run  to  him  in  delight. 

For  they  would  no  longer  whittle 
down  the  man  into  the  peasant,  but 
find  him  full  of  the  mystery  and  spirit 
of  his  age. 


THE  FUGITIVE  135 

Even  his  poverty  and  pain  would 
grow  great,  released  from  the  shallow 
insult  of  the  present,  and  the  paltry 
things  in  his  basket  would  acquire 
pathetic  dignity. 


18 

With  the  morning  he  came  out  to 
walk  a  road  shaded  by  a  file  of  deodars, 
that  coiled  the  hill  round  like  importun- 
ate love. 

He  held  the  first  letter  from  his 
newly  wedded  wife  in  their  village 
home,  begging  him  to  come  to  her,  and 
come  soon. 

The  touch  of  an  absent  hand  haunted 
him  as  he  walked,  and  the  air  seemed  to 
take  up  the  cry  of  the  letter :  "  Love, 
my  love,  my  sky  is  brimming  with 
tears  I " 

He  asked  himself  in  wonder,  "  How 
do  I  deserve  this  ? " 


186  THE  FUGITIVE 

The  sun  suddenly  appeared  over  the 
rim  of  the  blue  hills,  and  four  girls 
from  a  foreign  shore  came  with  swift 
strides,  talking  loud  and  followed  by  a 
barking  dog. 

The  two  elder  turned  away  to  con- 
ceal their  amusement  at  something 
strange  in  his  insignificance,  and  the 
younger  ones  pushed  each  other,  laughed 
aloud,  and  ran  off  in  exuberant  mirth. 

He  stopped  and  his  head  sank.  Then 
he  suddenly  felt  his  letter,  opened  and 
read  it  again. 


19 

The  day  came  for  the  image  from 
the  temple  to  be  drawn  round  the  holy 
town  in  its  chariot. 

The  Queen  said  to  the  King,  "Let 
us  go  and  attend  the  festival" 

Only  one  man  out  of  the  whole  house- 
hold did  not  join  in  the  pilgrimage.    His 


THE  FUGITIVE  137 

work  was  to  collect  stalks  of  spear- 
grass  to  make  brooms  for  the  King's 
house. 

The  chief  of  the  servants  said  in 
pity  to  him,  "You  may  come  with 
us." 

He  bowed  his  head,  saying,  "It 
cannot  be." 

The  man  dwelt  by  the  road  along 
which  the  King's  followers  had  to  pass. 
And  when  the  Minister's  elephant 
reached  this  spot,  he  called  to  him 
and  said,  "Come  with  us  and  see  the 
God  ride  in  his  chariot  I " 

"  I  dare  not  seek  God  after  the  King's 
fashion,"  said  the  man. 

"How  should  you  ever  have  such 
luck  again  as  to  see  the  God  in  his 
chariot  ?  "  asked  the  Minister. 

"When  God  himself  comes  to  my 
door,"  answered  the  man. 

The  Minister  laughed  loud  and  said. 


138  THE  FUGITIVE 

"Fool I  *When  God  comes  to  your 
door  1 '  yet  a  King  must  travel  to  see 
him  I " 

"  Who  except  God  visits  the  poor  ? " 
said  the  man. 

20 

Days  were  drawing  out  as  the  winter 
ended,  and,  in  the  sun,  my  dog  played 
in  his  wild  way  with  the  pet  deer. 

The  crowd  going  to  the  market 
gathered  by  the  fence,  and  laughed  to 
see  the  love  of  these  playmates  struggle 
with  languages  so  dissimilar. 

The  spring  was  in  the  air,  and  the 
young  leaves  fluttered  like  flames.  A 
gleam  danced  in  the  deer's  dark  eyes 
when  she  started,  bent  her  neck  at  the 
movement  of  her  own  shadow,  or  raised 
her  ears  to  listen  to  some  whisper  in 
the  wind. 

The  message  comes  floating  with  the 


THE  FUGITIVE  139 

errant  breeze,  with  the  rustle  and 
glimmer  abroad  in  the  April  sky.  It 
sings  of  the  first  ache  of  youth  in  the 
world,  when  the  first  flower  broke  from 
the  bud,  and  love  went  forth  seeking 
that  which  it  knew  not,  leaving  all  it 
had  known. 

And  one  afternoon,  when  among  the 
amldk  trees  the  shadow  grew  grave  and 
sweet  with  the  furtive  caress  of  light, 
the  deer  set  off  to  run  like  a  meteor  in 
love  with  death. 

It  grew  dark,  and  lamps  were  lighted 
in  the  house ;  the  stars  came  out  and 
night  was  upon  the  fields,  but  the  deer 
never  came  back. 

My  dog  ran  up  to  me  whining, 
questioning  me  with  his  piteous  eyes 
which  seemed  to  say,  "  I  do  not  under- 
stand ! " 

But  who  does  ever  understand  ? 


140  THE  FUGITIVE 

21 

Our  Lane  is  tortuous,  as  if,  ages 
ago,  she  started  in  quest  of  her  goal, 
vacillated  right  and  left,  and  remained 
bewildered  for  ever. 

Above  in  the  air,  between  her  build- 
ings, hangs  like  a  ribbon  a  strip  torn 
out  of  space :  she  calls  it  her  sister  of 
the  blue  town. 

She  sees  the  sun  only  for  a  few 
moments  at  mid-day,  and  asks  herself 
in  wise  doubt,  "  Is  it  real  ? " 

In  June  rain  sometimes  shades  her 
band  of  daylight  as  with  pencil  hatch- 
ings. The  path  grows  slippery  with 
mud,  and  umbrellas  collide.  Sudden  jets 
of  water  from  spouts  overhead  splash 
on  her  startled  pavement.  In  her  dis- 
may, she  takes  it  for  the  jest  of  an 
unmannerly  scheme  of  creation. 

The  spring  breeze,  gone  astray  in 
her  coil  of  contortions,  stumbles  like 


THE  FUGITIVE  141 

a  drunken  vagabond  against  angle  and 
corner,  filling  the  dusty  air  with  scraps  of 
paper  and  rag.  "  What  fury  of  foolish- 
ness I  Are  the  Gods  gone  mad  ? "  she 
exclaims  in  indignation. 

But  the  daily  refuse  from  the  houses 
on  both  sides — scales  of  fish  mixed 
with  ashes,  vegetable  peelings,  rotten 
fruit,  and  dead  rats — never  rouse  her 
to  question,  "  Why  should  these  things 
be?" 

She  accepts  every  stone  of  her  paving. 
But  from  between  their  chinks  some- 
times a  blade  of  grass  peeps  up.  That 
baffles  her.  How  can  solid  facts  permit 
such  intrusion  ? 

On  a  morning  when  at  the  touch  of 
autumn  light  her  houses  wake  up  into 
beauty  from  their  foul  dreams,  she 
whispers  to  herself,  "There  is  a  limit- 
less wonder  somewhere  beyond  these 
buildings." 

But  the  hours  pass  on ;  the  house- 


142  THE  FUGITIVE 

holds  are  astir  ;  the  maid  strolls  back 
from  the  market,  swinging  her  right 
arm  and  with  the  left  clasping  the 
basket  of  provisions  to  her  side  ;  the 
air  grows  thick  with  the  smell  and 
smoke  of  kitchens.  It  again  becomes 
clear  to  our  Lane  that  the  real  and 
normal  consist  solely  of  herself,  her 
houses,  and  their  muck-heaps. 


22 

The  house,  lingering  on  after  its 
wealth  has  vanished,  stands  by  the  way- 
side like  a  madman  with  a  patched  rag 
over  his  back. 

Day  after  day  scars  it  with  spiteful 
scratches,  and  rainy  months  leave  their 
fantastic  signatures  on  its  bared  bricks. 

In  a  deserted  upper  room  one  of 
a  pair  of  doors  has  fallen  from  rusty 
hinges ;  and  the  other,  widowed,  bangs 
day  and  night  to  the  fitful  gusts. 


THE  FUGITIVE  143 

One  night  the  sound  of  women  wail- 
ing came  from  that  house.  They 
mourned  the  death  of  the  last  son  of 
the  family,  a  boy  of  eighteen,  who 
earned  his  living  by  playing  the  part  of 
the  heroine  in  a  travelling  theatre. 

A  few  days  more  and  the  house 
became  silent,  and  all  the  doors  were 
locked. 

Only  on  the  north  side  in  the  upper 
room  that  desolate  door  would  neither 
drop  off  to  its  rest  nor  be  shut,  but 
swung  to  and  fro  in  the  wind  like  a 
self-torturing  soul. 

After  a  time  children's  voices  echo 
once  more  through  that  house.  Over 
the  balcony -rail  women's  clothes  are 
hung  in  the  sun,  a  bird  whistles  from  a 
covered  cage,  and  a  boy  plays  with  his 
kite  on  the  terrace. 

A  tenant  has  come  to  occupy  a  few 
rooms.     He  earns  little  and  has  many 


144  THE  FUGITIVE 

children.  The  tired  mother  beats 
them  and  they  roll  on  the  floor  and 
shriek. 

A  maid -servant  of  forty  drudges 
through  the  day,  quarrels  with  her 
mistress,  threatens  to,  but  never  leaves. 

Every  day  some  small  repairs  are 
done.  Paper  is  pasted  in  place  of 
missing  panes ;  gaps  in  the  railings 
are  made  good  with  split  bamboo ; 
an  empty  box  keeps  the  boltless  gate 
shut ;  old  stains  vaguely  show  through 
new  whitewash  on  the  walls. 

The  magnificence  of  wealth  had 
found  a  fitting  memorial  in  gaunt  deso- 
lation ;  but,  lacking  sufficient  means, 
they  try  to  hide  this  with  dubious 
devices,  and  its  dignity  is  outraged. 

They  have  overlooked  the  deserted 
room  on  the  north  side.  And  its 
forlorn  door  still  bangs  in  the  wind,  like 
Despair  beating  her  breast. 


THE  FUGITIVE  145 

23 

In  the  depths  of  the  forest  the 
ascetic  practised  penance  with  fast- 
closed  eyes;  he  intended  to  deserve 
Paradise. 

But  the  girl  who  gathered  twigs 
brought  him  fruits  in  her  skirt,  and 
water  from  the  stream  in  cups  made 
of  leaves. 

The  days  went  on,  and  his  pen- 
ance grew  harsher  till  the  fruits  re- 
mained untasted,  the  water  untouched  : 
and  the  girl  who  gathered  twigs  was 
sad. 

The  Lord  of  Paradise  heard  that  a 
man  had  dared  to  aspire  to  be  as  the 
Gods.  Time  after  time  he  had  fought 
the  Titans,  who  were  his  peers,  and 
kept  them  out  of  his  kingdom  ;  yet  he 
feared  a  man  whose  power  was  that  of 
suffering. 


146  THE  FUGITIVE 

But  he  knew  the  ways  of  mortals, 
and  he  planned  a  temptation  to  decoy 
this  creature  of  dust  away  from  his 
adventure. 

A  breath  from  Paradise  kissed  the 
limbs  of  the  girl  who  gathered  twigs, 
and  her  youth  ached  with  a  sudden 
rapture  of  beauty,  and  her  thoughts 
hummed  like  the  bees  of  a  rifled 
hive. 

The  time  came  when  the  ascetic 
should  leave  the  forest  for  a  mountain 
cave,  to  complete  the  rigour  of  his 
penance. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  in  order 
to  start  on  this  journey,  the  girl 
appeared  to  him  like  a  verse  familiar, 
yet  forgotten,  and  which  an  added 
melody  made  strange.  The  ascetic 
rose  from  his  seat  and  told  her  that 
it  was  time  he  left  the  forest. 

"  But  why  rob  me  of  my  chance  to 


THE  FUGITIVE  147 

serve  you  ? "  she   asked  with  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

He  sat  down  again,  thought  for  long, 
and  remained  on  where  he  was. 


That  night  remorse  kept  the  girl 
awake.  She  began  to  dread  her  power 
and  hate  her  triumph,  yet  her  mind 
tossed  on  the  waves  of  turbulent 
delight. 

In  the  morning  she  came  and  saluted 
the  ascetic  and  asked  his  blessing,  say- 
ing she  must  leave  him. 

He  gazed  on  her  face  in  silence,  then 
said,  "Go,  and  may  your  wish  be 
fulfilled." 

For  years  he  sat  alone  till  his  penance 
was  complete. 

The  Lord  of  the  Immortals  came 
down  to  tell  him  that  he  had  won 
Paradise. 

"  1  no  longer  need  it,"  said  he. 


148  THE  FUGITIVE 

The   God   asked   him   what  greater 
reward  he  desired. 

"  I  want  the  girl  who  gathers  twigs." 


24 

They  said  that  Kabir,  the  weaver, 
was  favoured  of  God,  and  the  crowd 
flocked  round  him  for  medicine  and 
miracles.  But  he  was  troubled ;  his 
low  birth  had  hitherto  endowed  him 
with  a  most  precious  obscurity  to 
sweeten  with  songs  and  with  the 
presence  of  his  God.  He  prayed  that 
it  might  be  restored. 

Envious  of  the  repute  of  this  outcast, 
the  priests  leagued  themselves  with  a 
harlot  to  disgrace  him.  Kabir  came 
to  the  market  to  sell  cloths  from  his 
loom ;  when  the  woman  grasped  his 
hand,  blaming  him  for  being  faithless, 
and  followed  him  to  his  house,  saying 
she  would  not  be  forsaken,  Kabir  said 


THE  FUGITIVE  149 

to  himself,  "  God  answers  prayers  in  his 
own  way." 

Soon  the  woman  felt  a  shiver  of  fear 
and  fell  on  her  knees  and  cried,  "  Save 
me  from  my  sin  I "  To  which  he  said, 
"  Open  your  life  to  God's  light ! " 

Kabir  worked  at  his  loom  and  sang, 
and  his  songs  washed  the  stains  from 
that  woman's  heart,  and  by  way  of 
return  found  a  home  in  her  sweet  voice. 

One  day  the  King,  in  a  fit  of  caprice, 
sent  a  message  to  Kabir  to  come  and 
sing  before  him.  The  weaver  shook 
his  head :  but  the  messenger  dared  not 
leave  his  door  till  his  master's  errand 
was  fulfilled. 

The  King  and  his  courtiers  started  at 
the  sight  of  Kabir  when  he  entered  the 
hall.  For  he  was  not  alone,  the  woman 
followed  him.  Some  smiled,  some 
frowned,  and  the  King's  face  darkened 
at  the  beggar's  pride  and  shamelessness. 


150  THE  FUGITIVE 

Kabir  came  back  to  his  house  dis- 
graced, the  woman  fell  at  his  feet  cry- 
ing, "Why  accept  such  dishonour  for 
my  sake,  master  ?  Suffer  me  to  go 
back  to  my  infamy  I  '* 

Kabir  said,  "  I  dare  not  turn  my  God 
away  when  he  comes  branded  with 
insult" 


25 

SOMAKA  AND  RITVIK 


in 


SOMAKA  AND   RITVIK 

The  shade  of  King  Somaka,  faring 
to  Heaven  in  a  chariot,  passes  other 
shades  by  the  roadside,  among  them  that 
of  RiTViK,  his  former  high-priest, 

A  Voice 
Where  would  you  go.  King  ? 

SOMAKA 

Whose  voice  is  that?  This  turbid 
air  is  like  suffocation  to  the  eyes ;  I 
cannot  see. 

The  Voice 

Come  down,  King  I  Come  down 
from  that  chariot  bound  for  Heaven. 

153 


154  THE  FUGITIVE 

SOMAKA 

Who  are  you  ? 

The  Voice 

I  am  Ritvik,  who  in  my  earthly  life 
was  your  preceptor  and  the  chief  priest 
of  your  house. 

SoMAKA 

Master,  all  the  tears  of  the  world 
seem  to  have  become  vapour  to  create 
this  realm  of  vagueness.  What  make 
you  here  ? 

Shades 

This  hell  lies  hard  by  the  road  to 
Heaven,  whence  lights  glimmer  dimly, 
only  to  prove  unapproachable.  Day 
and  night  we  listen  to  the  heavenly 
chariot  rumbling  by  with  travellers  for 
that  region  of  bliss ;  it  drives  sleep 
from  our  eyes  and  forces  them  to  watch 


THE  FUGITIVE  155 

in  fruitless  jealousy.  Far  below  us 
earth's  old  forests  rustle  and  her  seas 
chant  the  primal  hymn  of  creation : 
they  sound  like  the  wail  of  a  memory 
that  wanders  void  space  in  vain. 

RiTVIK 

Come  down,  King ! 

Shades 

Stop  a  few  moments  among  us.  The 
earth's  tears  still  cling  about  you,  like 
dew  on  freshly  culled  flowers.  You 
have  brought  with  you  the  mingled 
odours  of  meadow  and  forest ;  remi- 
niscence of  children,  women,  and  com- 
rades ;  something  too  of  the  ineffable 
music  of  the  seasons. 

SOMAKA 

Master,  why  are  you  doomed  to  live 
in  this  muffled  stagnant  world  ? 


156  THE  FUGITIVE 

RiTVIK 

I  offered  up  your  son  in  the  sacri- 
ficial fire :  tJiat  sin  has  lodged  my  soul 
in  this  obscurity. 

Shades 

King,  tell  us  the  story,  we  implore 
you  ;  the  recital  of  crime  can  still  bring 
life*s  fire  into  our  torpor. 

SOMAKA 

I  was  named  Somaka,  the  King  of 
Videha.  After  sacrificing  at  innumer- 
able shrines  weary  year  on  year,  a  son 
was  born  to  my  house  in  my  old  age, 
love  for  whom,  like  a  sudden  untimely 
flood,  swept  consideration  for  everything 
else  from  my  life.  He  hid  me  com- 
pletely, as  a  lotus  hides  its  stem.  The 
neglected  duties  of  a  king  piled  up  in 
shame  before  my  throne.  One  day,  in 
my  audience  hall,  I  heard  my  child  cry 


THE  FUGITIVE  157 

from  his  mother's  room,  and  instantly 
rushed  away,  vacating  my  throne. 

RiTVIK 

Just  then,  it  chanced,  I  entered  the 
hall  to  give  him  my  daily  benediction ; 
in  blind  haste  he  brushed  me  aside  and 
enkindled  my  anger.  When  later  he 
came  back,  shame-faced,  I  asked  him : 
"King,  what  desperate  alarm  could 
draw  you  at  the  busiest  hour  of  the 
day  to  the  women's  apartments,  so 
as  to  desert  your  dignity  and  duty — 
ambassadors  come  from  friendly  courts, 
the  aggrieved  who  ask  for  justice,  your 
ministers  waiting  to  discuss  matters  of 
grave  import  ?  and  even  lead  you  to 
shght  a  Brahmin's  blessing  ? " 

SOMAKA 

At  first  my  heart  flamed  with  anger ; 
the  next  moment  I  trampled  it  down 
like  the  raised  head   of  a   snake   and 


158  THE  FUGITIVE 

meekly  replied :  "  Having  only  one 
child,  I  have  lost  my  peace  of  mind. 
Forgive  me  this  once,  and  I  promise 
that  in  future  the  father's  infatuation 
shall  never  usurp  the  King." 

RiTVIK 

But  my  heart  was  bitter  with  resent- 
ment, and  I  said,  "If  you  must  be 
delivered  from  the  curse  of  having  only 
one  child,  I  can  show  you  the  way. 
But  so  hard  is  it  that  I  feel  certain  you 
will  fail  to  follow  it"  This  galled  the 
King's  pride  and  he  stood  up  and  ex- 
claimed, "  I  swear,  by  all  that  is  sacred, 
as  a  Kshatriya  and  a  King,  I  will  not 
shrink,  but  perform  whatever  you  may 
ask,  however  hard."  "Then  listen," 
said  I.  "Light  a  sacrificial  fire,  offer 
up  your  son  :  the  smoke  that  rises  will 
bring  you  progeny,  as  the  clouds  bring 
rain."  The  King  bowed  his  head  upon 
his   breast   and   remained    silent :    the 


THE  FUGITIVE  159 

courtiers  shouted  their  horror,  the 
Brahmins  clapped  their  hands  over 
their  ears,  crying,  "Sin  it  is  both  to 
utter  and  listen  to  such  words."  After 
some  moments  of  bewildered  dismay 
the  King  calmly  said,  "  I  will  abide  by 
my  promise."  The  day  came,  the  fire 
was  lit,  the  town  was  emptied  of  its 
people,  the  child  was  called  for;  but 
the  attendants  refused  to  obey,  the 
soldiers  rebelliously  went  off  duty, 
throwing  down  their  arms.  Then  I, 
who  in  my  wisdom  had  soared  far 
above  all  weakness  of  heart  and  to 
whom  emotions  were  illusory,  went 
myself  to  the  apartment  where,  with 
their  arms,  women  fenced  the  child  like 
a  flower  surrounded  by  the  menacing 
branches  of  a  tree.  He  saw  me  and 
stretched  out  eager  hands  and  struggled 
to  come  to  me,  for  he  longed  to  be  free 
from  the  love  that  imprisoned  him. 
Crying,  "I  am  come  to  give  you  true 


160  THE  FUGITIVE 

deliverance,"  I  snatched  him  by  force 
from  his  fainting  mother  and  his  nurses 
wailing  in  despair.  With  quivering 
tongues  the  fire  licked  the  sky  and  the 
King  stood  beside  it,  still  and  silent, 
like  a  tree  struck  dead  by  lightning. 
Fascinated  by  the  godlike  splendour 
of  the  blaze,  the  child  babbled  in  glee 
and  danced  in  my  arms,  impatient  to 
seek  an  unknown  nurse  in  the  free 
glory  of  those  flames. 

SOMAKA 

Stop,  no  more,  I  pray  I 

Shades 

Ritvik,  your  presence  is  a  disgrace  to 
hell  itself! 

The  Charioteer 

This  is  no  place  for  you,  King !  nor 
have  you  deserved  to  be  forced  to  listen 


THE  FUGITIVE  161 

to  this  recital  of  a  deed  which  makes 
hell  shudder  in  pity. 

SOMAKA 

Drive  off  in  your  chariot ! — Brahmin, 
my  place  is  by  you  in  this  hell.  The 
Gods  may  forget  my  sin,  but  can  I  forget 
the  last  look  of  agonised  surprise  on 
my  child's  face  when,  for  one  terrible 
moment,  he  realised  that  his  own  father 
had  betrayed  his  trust  ? 

Enter  Dh arma,  the  Judge  of  Departed 
Spirits 

Dharma 
King,  Heaven  waits  for  you. 

SoMAKA 

No,  not  for  me.  I  killed  my  own 
child. 

M 


162  THE  FUGITIVE 

Dharma 

Your  sin  has  been  swept  away  in  the 
fury  of  pain  it  caused  you. 

RiTVIK 

No,  King,  you  must  never  go  to 
Heaven  alone,  and  thus  create  a  second 
hell  for  me,  to  burn  both  with  fire  and 
with  hatred  of  you  !     Stay  here  I 

SOMAKA 

I  will  stay. 

Shades 
And  crown  the  despair  and  inglorious 
suffering  of  hell  with  the  triumph  of 
a  soul  I 


26 

The  man  had  no  useful  work,  only 
vagaries  of  various  kinds. 

Therefore  it  surprised  him  to  find 
himself  in  Paradise  after  a  life  spent 
perfecting  trifles. 

Now  the  guide  had  taken  him  by 
mistake  to  the  wrong  Paradise — one 
meant  only  for  good,  busy  souls. 

In  this  Paradise,  our  man  saunters 
along  the  road  only  to  obstruct  the 
rush  of  business. 

He  stands  aside  from  the  path  and 
is  warned  that  he  tramples  on  sown 
seed.  Pushed,  he  starts  up  :  hustled, 
he  moves  on. 

163 


164  THE  FUGITIVE 

A  very  busy  girl  comes  to  fetch  water 
from  the  well.  Her  feet  run  on  the 
pavement  like  rapid  fingers  over  harp- 
strings.  Hastily  she  ties  a  negligent 
knot  with  her  hair,  and  loose  locks  on 
her  forehead  pry  into  the  dark  of  her 
eyes. 

The  man  says  to  her,  "Would  you 
lend  me  your  pitcher  ? " 

"  My  pitcher  ? "  she  asks,  "  to  draw 
water  ? " 

**  No,  to  paint  patterns  on.*' 

"I  have  no  time  to  waste,"  the  girl 
retorts  in  contempt. 

Now  a  busy  soul  has  no  chance 
against  one  who  is  supremely  idle. 

Every  day  she  meets  him  at  the 
well,  and  every  day  he  repeats  the 
same  request,  till  at  last  she  yields. 

Our  man  paints  the  pitcher  with 
curious  colours  in  a  mysterious  maze 
of  lin^ 


THE  FUGITIVE  165 

The  girl  takes  it  up,  turns  it  round 
and  asks,  **  What  does  it  mean  ? " 
"  It  has  no  meaning,"  he  answers. 

The  girl  carries  the  pitcher  home. 
She  holds  it  up  in  different  lights  and 
tries  to  con  its  mystery. 

At  night  she  leaves  her  bed,  lights  a 
lamp,  and  gazes  at  it  from  all  points  of 
view. 

This  is  the  first  time  she  has  met  with 
something  without  meaning. 

On  the  next  day  the  man  is  again 
near  the  well. 

The  girl  asks,  "  What  do  you  want  ? ' 

"  To  do  more  work  for  you." 

"  What  work  ?  "  she  enquires. 

"  Allow  me  to  weave  coloured  strands 
into  a  ribbon  to  bind  your  hair." 

"  Is  there  any  need  ? "  she  asks. 

"  None  whatever,"  he  allows. 

The  ribbon   is  made,    and    thence- 


166  THE  FUGITIVE 

forward  she  spends  a  great  deal  of  time 
over  her  hah*. 

The  even  stretch  of  well-employed 
time  in  that  Paradise  begins  to  show 
irregular  rents. 

The  elders  are  troubled ;  they  meet 
in  council. 

The  guide  confesses  his  blunder,  say- 
ing that  he  has  brought  the  wrong  man 
to  the  wrong  place. 

The  wrong  man  is  called.  His 
turban,  flaming  with  colour,  shows 
plainly  how  great  that  blunder  has 
been. 

The  chief  of  the  elders  says,  "  You 
must  go  back  to  the  earth." 

The  man  heaves  a  sigh  of  relief :  "  I 
am  ready." 

The  girl  with  the  ribbon  round  her 
hair  chimes  in  :  "I  also  I  " 

For  the  first  time  the  chief  of  the 
elders  is  faced  with  a  situation  which 
has  no  sense  in  it. 


THE  FUGITIVE  167 

27 

It  is  said  that  in  the  forest,  near 
the  meeting  of  river  and  lake,  certain 
fairies  live  in  disguise  who  are  only 
recognised  as  fairies  after  they  have 
flown  away. 

A  Prince  went  to  this  forest,  and 
when  he  came  where  river  met  lake 
he  saw  a  village  girl  sitting  on  the 
bank  ruffling  the  water  to  make  the 
lilies  dance. 

He  asked  her  in  a  whisper,  "Tell 
me,  what  fairy  art  thou  ?  " 

The  girl  laughed  at  the  question  and 
the  hillsides  echoed  her  mirth. 

The  Prince  thought  she  was  the 
laughing  fairy  of  the  waterfall. 

News  reached  the  King  that  the 
Prince  had  married  a  fairy  :  he  sent 
horses  and  men  and  brought  them  to 
his  house. 


168  THE  FUGITIVE 

The  Queen  saw  the  bride  and  turned 
her  face  away  in  disgust,  the  Prince's 
sister  flushed  red  with  annoyance,  and 
the  maids  asked  if  that  was  how  fairies 
dressed. 

The  Prince  whispered,  "  Hush  1  my 
fairy  has  come  to  our  house  in  disguise." 

On  the  day  of  the  yearly  festival  the 
Queen  said  to  her  son,  "  Ask  your  bride 
not  to  shame  us  before  our  kinsfolk 
who  are  coming  to  see  the  fairy." 

And  the  Prince  said  to  his  bride, 
"For  my  love's  sake  show  thy  true 
self  to  my  people." 

Long  she  sat  silent,  then  nodded 
her  promise  while  tears  ran  down  her 
cheeks. 

The  full  moon  shone,  the  Prince, 
dressed  in  a  wedding  robe,  entered  his 
bride's  room. 

No   one   was  there,   nothing  but  a 


THE  FUGITIVE         169 

streak  of  moonlight  from  the  window 
aslant  the  bed. 

The  kinsfolk  crowded  in  with  the 
King  and  the  Queen,  the  Prince's 
sister  stood  by  the  door. 

All  asked,  "Where  is  the  fairy 
bride?" 

The  Prince  answered,  "  She  has 
vanished  for  ever  to  make  herself 
known  to  you." 


28 
KA.RNA  AND  KUNTI 


171 


KARNA  AND  KUNTI 

The  Pandava  Queen  Kunti  before 
marriage  had  a  son^  Kama,  who,  in 
manhoody  became  the  commander  of  the 
Kaurava  host.  To  hide  her  shame  she 
abandoned  him  at  birth,  and  a  charioteer, 
Adhiratha,  brought  him  up  as  his  son. 

Karna 

I  am  Kama,  the  son  of  the  charioteer, 
Adhiratha,  and  I  sit  here  by  the  bank 
of  holy  Ganges  to  worship  the  setting 
sun.     Tell  me  who  you  are. 

Kunti 
I   am  the   woman   who   first    made 


174  THE  FUGITIVE 

you  acquainted  with  that  light  you  are 
worshipping. 

Karna 

I  do  not  understand :  but  your  eyes 
melt  my  heart  as  the  kiss  of  the  morn- 
ing sun  melts  the  snow  on  a  moun- 
tain-top, and  your  voice  rouses  a  blind 
sadness  within  me  of  which  the  cause 
may  well  lie  beyond  the  reach  of  my 
earliest  memory.  Tell  me,  strange 
woman,  what  mystery  binds  my  birth 
to  you? 

KUNTI 

Patience,  my  son.  I  will  answer 
when  the  lids  of  darkness  come  down 
over  the  prying  eyes  of  day.  In  the 
meanwhile,  know  that  I  am  Kunti. 

Karna 
Kunti  I     The  mother  of  Arjuna  ? 


THE  FUGITIVE         175 


KUNTI 


Yes,  indeed,  the  mother  of  Arjuna, 
your  antagonist.  But  do  not,  therefore, 
hate  me.  I  still  remember  the  day  of 
the  trial  of  arms  in  Hastina  when  you, 
an  unknown  boy,  boldly  stepped  into 
the  arena,  like  the  first  ray  of  dawn 
among  the  stars  of  night.  Ah  I  who 
was  that  unhappy  woman  whose  eyes 
kissed  your  bare,  slim  body  through 
tears  that  blessed  you,  where  she  sat 
among  the  women  of  the  royal  house- 
hold behind  the  arras?  Why,  the 
mother  of  Arjuna  I  Then  the  Brahmin, 
master  of  arms,  stepped  forth  and  said, 
"  No  youth  of  mean  birth  may  challenge 
Arjuna  to  a  trial  of  strength."  You 
stood  speechless,  like  a  thunder-cloud 
at  sunset  flashing  with  an  agony  of 
suppressed  light.  But  who  was  the 
woman  whose  heart  caught  fire  from 
your  shame  and  anger,  and  flared  up 


176  THE  FUGITIVE 

in  silence  ?  The  mother  of  Arjuna  I 
Praised  be  Duryodhana,  who  perceived 
your  worth,  and  then  and  there  crowned 
you  King  of  Anga,  thus  winning  the 
Kauravas  a  champion.  Overwhelmed 
at  this  good  fortune,  Adhiratha,  the 
charioteer,  broke  through  the  crowd ; 
you  instantly  rushed  to  him  and  laid 
your  crown  at  his  feet  amid  the  jeer- 
ing laughter  of  the  Pandavas  and  their 
friends.  But  there  was  one  woman  of 
the  Pandava  house  whose  heart  glowed 
with  joy  at  the  heroic  pride  of  such 
humility ; — even  the  mother  of  Arjuna  1 

Karna 

But   what    brings   you   here   alone, 
Mother  of  kings  ? 

KUNTI 

I  have  a  boon  to  crave. 


THE  FUGITIVE         177 

Karna 

Command  me,  and  whatever  man- 
hood and  my  honour  as  a  Kshatriya 
permit  shall  be  offered  at  your  feet. 

KUNTI 

I  have  come  to  take  you. 

ILV-RNA 

Where  ? 

KuNTI 

To  my  breast  thirsting  for  your  love, 
my  son. 

Karna 

Fortunate  mother  of  five  brave  kings, 
where  can  you  find  place  for  me,  a 
small  chieftain  of  lowly  descent  ? 

KuNTI 

Your  place  is  before  all  my  other 
sons. 

N 


178         THE  FUGITIVE 

Karna 

But  what  right  have  I  to  take  it  ? 

KUNTI 

Your  own  God-given  right  to  your 
mother's  love. 

Karna 

The  gloom  of  evening  spreads  over 
the  earth,  silence  rests  on  the  water, 
and  your  voice  leads  me  back  to  some 
primal  world  of  infancy  lost  in  twilit 
consciousness.  However,  whether  this 
be  dream,  or  fragment  of  forgotten 
reality,  come  near  and  place  your  right 
hand  on  my  forehead.  Rumour  runs 
that  I  was  deserted  by  my  mother. 
Many  a  night  she  has  come  to  me  in 
my  slumber,  but  when  I  cried  :  "  Open 
your  veil,  show  me  your  face  I "  her 
figure  always  vanished.  Has  this  same 
dream  come  this  evening  while  I  wake  ? 
See,  yonder  the  lamps  are  lighted  in 


THE  FUGITIVE  179 

your  son's  tents  across  the  river ;  and 
on  this  side  behold  the  tent-domes  of 
my  Kauravas,  like  the  suspended  waves 
of  a  spell-arrested  storm  at  sea.  Be- 
fore the  din  of  to-morrow's  battle,  in 
the  awful  hush  of  this  field  where  it 
must  be  fought,  why  should  the  voice 
of  the  mother  of  my  opponent,  Arjuna, 
bring  me  a  message  of  forgotten  mother- 
hood ?  and  why  should  my  name  take 
such  music  from  her  tongue  as  to  draw 
my  heart  out  to  him  and  his  brothers  ? 

KUNTI 

Then  delay  not,  my  son,  come  with 
me! 

Karna 
Yes,  I  will  come  and  never  ask 
question,  never  doubt  My  soul  re- 
sponds to  your  call ;  and  the  struggle 
for  victory  and  fame  and  the  rage  of 
hatred  have   suddenly  become  untrue 


180  THE  FUGITIVE 

to  me,  as  the  delirious  dream  of  a  night 
in  the  serenity  of  the  dawn.  Tell  me 
whither  you  mean  to  lead  ? 

KUNTI 

To  the  other  bank  of  the  river,  where 
those  lamps  burn  across  the  ghastly 
pallor  of  the  sands. 

Karna 

Am  I  there  to  find  my  lost  mother 
for  ever  ? 

KuNTI 

O  my  son ! 

Karna 

Then  why  did  you  banish  me — a 
castaway  uprooted  from  my  ancestral 
soil,  adrift  in  a  homeless  current  of 
indignity  ?  Why  set  a  bottomless 
chasm  between  Arjuna  and  myself, 
turning  the  natural  attachment  of  kin- 


THE  FUGITIVE  181 

ship  to  the  dread  attraction  of  hate  ? 
You  remain  speechless.  Your  shame 
permeates  the  vast  darkness  and  sends 
invisible  shivers  through  my  limbs. 
Leave  my  question  unanswered  I  Never 
explain  to  me  what  made  you  rob  your 
son  of  his  mother's  love  I  Only  tell  me 
why  you  have  come  to-day  to  call  me 
back  to  the  ruins  of  a  heaven  wrecked 
by  your  own  hands  ? 

KUNTI 

I  am  dogged  by  a  curse  more  deadly 
than  your  reproaches  :  for,  though  sur- 
rounded by  five  sons,  my  heart  shrivels 
like  that  of  a  woman  deprived  of  her 
children.  Through  the  great  rent  that 
yawned  for  my  deserted  first-born, 
all  my  life's  pleasures  have  run  to 
waste.  On  that  accursed  day  when  I 
belied  my  motherhood  you  could  not 
utter  a  word ;  to-day  your  recreant 
mother  implores  you  for  generous  words. 


182  THE  FUGITIVE 

Let   your   forgiveness   burn   her  heart 
like  fire  and  consume  its  sin. 


Karna 

Mother,  accept  my  tears  1 

KUNTI 

I  did  not  come  with  the  hope  of 
winning  you  back  to  my  arms,  but  with 
that  of  restoring  your  rights  to  you. 
Come  and  receive,  as  a  king's  son,  your 
due  among  your  brothers. 

Karna 

I  am  more  truly  the  son  of  a 
charioteer,  and  do  not  covet  the  glory 
of  greater  parentage. 

KuNTi 

Be  that  as  it  may,  come  and  win 
back  the  kingdom  which  is  yours  by 
right  I 


THE  FUGITIVE  183 

Karna 

Must  you,  who  once  refused  me  a 
mother's  love,  tempt  me  with  a  king- 
dom ?  The  quick  bond  of  kindred  which 
you  severed  at  its  root  is  dead,  and  can 
never  grow  again.  Shame  were  mine 
should  I  hasten  to  call  the  mother  of 
kings  mother,  and  abandon  my  mother 
in  the  charioteer's  house  I 

KUNTI 

You  are  great,  my  son  1  How  God's 
punishment  invisibly  grows  from  a  tiny 
seed  to  a  giant  life  I  The  helpless  babe 
disowned  by  his  mother  comes  back  a 
man  through  the  dark  maze  of  events 
to  smite  his  brothers  I 

Karna 

Mother,  have  no  fear  I  I  know  for 
certain  that  victory  awaits  the  Pandavas. 
Peaceful  and  still  though  this  night  be. 


184  THE  FUGITIVE 

my  heart  is  full  of  the  music  of  a  hope- 
less venture  and  baffled  end.  Ask  me 
not  to  leave  those  who  are  doomed  to 
defeat.  Let  the  Pandavas  win  the 
throne,  since  they  must ;  I  remain  with 
the  desperate  and  forlorn.  On  the 
night  of  my  birth  you  left  me  naked 
and  unnamed  to  disgrace :  leave  me 
once  again  without  pity  to  the  calm 
expectation  of  defeat  and  death  I 


29 

When  like  a  flaming  scimitar  the 
hill  stream  has  been  sheathed  in  gloom 
by  the  evening,  suddenly  a  flock  of 
birds  passes  overhead,  their  loud-laugh- 
ing wings  hurling  their  flight  like  an 
arrow  among  stars. 

It  startles  a  passion  for  speed  in  the 
heart  of  all  motionless  things ;  the 
hills  seem  to  feel  in  their  bosom  the 
anguish  of  storm-clouds,  and  trees  long 
to  break  their  rooted  shackles. 

For  me  the  flight  of  these  birds  has 
rent  a  veil  of  stillness,  and  reveals  an 
immense  flutter  in  this  deep  silence. 

I  see  these  hills  and  forests  fly  across 
time  to  the  unknown,  and  darkness 
thrill  into  fire  as  the  stars  wing  by. 

185 


186  THE  FUGITIVE 

I  feel  in  my  own  being  the  rush  of 
the  sea- crossing  bird,  cleaving  a  way 
beyond  the  limits  of  life  and  death, 
while  the  migrant  world  cries  with  a 
myriad  voices,  "  Not  here,  but  some- 
where else,  in  the  bosom  of  the  Far- 
away." 

30 

The  crowd  listens  in  wonder  to  Kashi, 
the  young  singer,  whose  voice,  like  a 
sword  in  feats  of  skill,  dances  amidst 
hopeless  tangles,  cuts  them  to  pieces, 
and  exults. 

Among  the  hearers  sits  old  Rajah 
Pratap  in  weary  endurance.  For  his 
own  life  had  been  nourished  and  en- 
circled by  Barajlal's  songs,  like  a  happy 
land  which  a  river  laces  with  beauty. 
His  rainy  evenings  and  the  still  hours 
of  autumn   days   spoke  to    his    heart 


THE  FUGITIVE  187 

through  Barajlal's  voice,  and  his  festive 
nights  trimmed  their  lamps  and  tinkled 
their  bells  to  those  songs. 

When  Kashi  stopped  for  rest,  Pratap 
smilingly  winked  at  Barajlal  and  spoke 
to  him  in  a  whisper,  "  Master,  now  let 
us  hear  music  and  not  this  new-fangled 
singing,  which  mimics  frisky  kittens 
hunting  paralysed  mice." 

The  old  singer  with  his  spotlessly 
white  turban  made  a  deep  bow  to  the 
assembly  and  took  his  seat.  His  thin 
fingers  struck  the  strings  of  his  instru- 
ment, his  eyes  closed,  and  in  timid 
hesitation  his  song  began.  The  hall 
was  large,  his  voice  feeble,  and  Pratap 
shouted  "  Bravo  I "  with  ostentation, 
but  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  Just  a  little 
louder,  friend  I " 

The  crowd  was  restless;  some  yawned, 
some  dozed,  some  complained   of  the 


188  THE  FUGITIVE 

heat.  The  air  of  the  hall  hummed  with 
many-toned  inattention,  and  the  song, 
like  a  frail  boat,  tossed  upon  it  in  vain 
till  it  sank  under  the  hubbub. 

Suddenly  the  old  man,  stricken  at 
heart,  forgot  a  passage,  and  his  voice 
groped  in  agony,  like  a  blind  man  at  a 
fair  for  his  lost  leader.  He  tried  to 
fill  the  gap  with  any  strain  that  came. 
But  the  gap  still  yawned  :  and  the 
tortured  notes  refused  to  serve  the 
need,  suddenly  changed  their  tune,  and 
broke  into  a  sob.  The  master  laid  his 
head  on  his  instrument,  and  in  place  of 
his  forgotten  music,  there  broke  from 
him  the  first  cry  of  life  that  a  child 
brings  into  the  world. 

Pratap  touched  him  gently  on  his 
shoulder,  and  said,  "Come  away,  our 
meeting  is  elsewhere.  I  know,  my 
friend,  that  truth  is  widowed  without 


THE  FUGITIVE  189 

love,  and  beauty  dwells  not  with  the 
many,  nor  in  the  moment." 


31 

In  the  youth  of  the  world,  Himalaya, 
you  sprang  from  the  rent  breast  of  the 
earth,  and  hurled  your  burning  chal- 
lenges to  the  sun,  hill  after  hill.  Then 
came  the  mellow  time  when  you  said 
to  yourself,  "  No  more,  no  further  I " 
and  your  fiery  heart,  that  raged  for 
the  freedom  of  clouds,  found  its  limits, 
and  stood  still  to  salute  the  limitless. 
After  this  check  on  your  passion, 
beauty  was  free  to  play  upon  your 
breast,  and  trust  surrounded  you  with 
the  joy  of  flowers  and  birds. 

You  sit  in  your  solitude  like  a  great 
reader,  on  whose  lap  Ues  open  some 
ancient  book  with  its  countless  pages 
of  stone.     What  story  is  written  there, 


190  THE  FUGITIVE 

I  wonder  ? — is  it  the  eternal  wedding 
of  the  divine  ascetic,  Shiva,  with 
Bhavani,  the  divine  love? — the  drama 
of  the  Terrible  wooing  the  power  of 
the  Frail  ? 

32 

I  feel  that  my  heart  will  leave  its 
own  colour  in  all  your  scenes,  O  Earth, 
when  I  bid  you  farewell.  Some  notes 
of  mine  will  be  added  to  your  seasons* 
melody,  and  my  thoughts  will  breathe 
unrecognised  through  the  cycle  of 
shadows  and  sunshine. 

In  far-distant  days  sunmier  will  come 
to  the  lovers'  garden,  but  they  will  not 
know  that  their  flowers  have  borrowed 
an  added  beauty  from  my  songs,  nor 
that  their  love  for  this  world  has  been 
deepened  by  mine. 

33 

My  eyes  feel  the  deep  peace  of  this 
sky,  and  there  stirs  through  me  what 


THE  FUGITIVE  191 

a  tree  feels  when  it  holds  out  its  leaves 
like  cups  to  be  filled  with  sunshine. 

A  thought  rises  in  my  mind,  like  the 
warm  breath  from  grass  in  the  sun ; 
it  mingles  with  the  gurgle  of  lapping 
water  and  the  sigh  of  weary  wind  in 
village  lanes, — the  thought  that  I  have 
lived  along  with  the  whole  life  of  this 
world  and  have  given  to  it  my  own 
love  and  sorrows. 


34 

I  ask  no  reward  for  the  songs  I  sang 
you.  I  shall  be  content  if  they  live 
through  the  night,  until  Dawn,  like  a 
shepherd -maiden,  calls  away  the  stars, 
in  alarm  at  the  sun. 

But  there  were  moments  when  you 
sang  your  songs  to  me,  and  as  my 
pride  knows,  my  Poet,  you  will  ever 
remember  that  I  listened  and  lost  my 
heart. 


192  THE  FUGITIVE 


35 


In  the  morning,  when  the  dew 
glistened  upon  the  grass,  you  came  and 
gave  a  push  to  my  swing ;  but,  sweep- 
ing from  smiles  to  tears,  I  did  not 
know  you. 

Then  came  April's  noon  of  gorgeous 
light,  and  I  think  you  beckoned  me  to 
follow  you. 

But  when  I  sought  your  face,  there 
passed  between  us  the  procession  of 
flowers,  and  men  and  women  flinging 
their  songs  to  the  south  wind. 

Daily  I  passed  you  unheeded  on  the 
road. 

But  on  some  days  full  of  the  faint 
smell  of  oleanders,  when  the  wind  was 
wilful  among  complaining  palm  leaves, 
I  would  stand  before  you  wondering  if 
you  ever  had  been  a  stranger  to  me. 


THE  FUGITIVE  198 

36 

The  day  grew  dim.  The  early  even- 
ing star  faltered  near  the  edge  of  a 
grey  lonely  sky. 

I  looked  back  and  felt  that  the  road 
lying  behind  me  was  infinitely  removed ; 
traced  through  my  life,  it  had  only 
served  for  a  single  journey  and  was 
never  to  be  re-travelled. 

The  long  story  of  my  coming  hither 
lies  there  dumb,  in  one  meandering  line 
of  dust  stretching  from  the  morning  hill- 
top to  the  brink  of  bottomless  night. 

I  sit  alone,  and  wonder  if  this  road  is 
like  an  instrument  waiting  to  give  up 
the  day's  lost  voices  in  music  when 
touched  by  divine  fingers  at  nightfall 

37 

Give  me  the  supreme  courage  of 
love,  this  is  my  prayer — the  courage 
to  speak,  to  do,  to  suffer  at  thy  will, 

o 


194  THE  FUGITIVE 

to  leave  all  things  or  be  left  alone. 
Strengthen  me  on  errands  of  danger, 
honour  me  with  pain,  and  help  me  climb 
to  that  difficult  mood  which  sacrifices 
daily  to  thee. 

Give  me  the  supreme  confidence  of 
love,  this  is  my  prayer — the  confidence 
that  belongs  to  life  in  death,  to  victory 
in  defeat,  to  the  power  hidden  in 
frailest  beauty,  to  that  dignity  in  pain 
which  accepts  hurt  but  disdains  to 
return  it 


38 
TRANSLATIONS 


195 


FROM   HINDI   SONGS   OF 
JN AN ADAS 


Where  were  your  songs,  my  bird, 
when  you  spent  your  nights  in  the 
nest  ? 

Was  not  all  your  pleasure  stored 
therein  ? 

What  makes  you  lose  your  heart  to 
the  sky — the  sky  that  is  boundless  ? 


Answer 

While  I  rested  within  bounds  I  was 
content.  But  when  I  soared  into  vast- 
ness  I  found  I  could  sing. 

197 


198  THE  FUGITIVE 

2 

Messenger,  morning  brought  you, 
habited  in  gold. 

After  sunset  your  song  wore  a  tune 
of  ascetic  grey,  and  then  came  night. 

Your  message  was  written  in  bright 
letters  across  black. 

Why  is  such  splendour  about  you  to 
lure  the  heart  of  one  who  is  nothing  ? 

Answer 

Great  is  the  festival  hall  where  you 
are  to  be  the  only  guest. 

Therefore  the  letter  to  you  is  written 
from  sky  to  sky,  and  I,  the  proud 
servant,  bring  the  invitation  with  all 
ceremony. 

3 

I  had  travelled  all  day  and  was  tired, 
then  I  bowed  my  head  towards  thy 
kingly  court  still  far  away. 


THE  FUGITIVE  199 

The  night  deepened,  a  longing  burned 
in  my  heart;  whatever  the  words  I 
sang,  pain  cried  through  them,  for  even 
my  songs  thirsted.  O  my  Lover,  my 
Beloved,  my  best  in  all  the  world  I 

When  time  seemed  lost  in  darkness 
thy  hand  dropped  its  sceptre  to  take 
up  the  lute  and  strike  the  uttermost 
chords ;  and  my  heart  sang  out,  O  my 
Lover,  my  Beloved,  my  best  in  all  the 
world  I 

Ah,  who  is  this  whose  arms  enfold 
me? 

Whatever  I  have  to  leave  let  me 
leave,  and  whatever  I  have  to  bear  let 
me  bear.  Only  let  me  walk  with  thee, 
O  my  Lover,  my  Beloved,  my  best  in 
all  the  world ! 

Descend  at  whiles  from  thine  audience 


200  THE  FUGITIVE 

hall,  come  down  amid  joys  and  sorrows  ; 
hide  in  all  forms  and  delights,  in  love 
and  in  my  heart ;  there  sing  thy  songs, 
O  my  Lover,  my  Beloved,  my  best  in 
all  the  world ! 


THE   END 


PrinUd  ly'R.  h'SL.  Clark,  Limitkd,  Edinbtarglt. 


j  A    000  689  400    0 


CENTRAL  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
University  of  California,  San  Diego 

DATE  DUE 


UCSD  Libr. 


